


Til' Death Do Us Part

by ThingsGetBetter



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Religious Zealots, The Light isn't always good, Undead!Jaina, actual morally grey characters, authoritarian Alliance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-11-19 13:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThingsGetBetter/pseuds/ThingsGetBetter
Summary: Amidst the heat of battle Sylvanas breaks a promise to the woman she loves.AKA There's not enough undead Jaina and I need to rectify this.





	1. Fear and Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I'm pretty new to this ship but familiar enough with WoW lore to hopefully tell you a story that I've been thinking about for a long time. Let me know your thoughts in the comments <3 Super impressed by the quality of fanfictions around this pairing so hope I can somewhat do these two justice.

The Forsaken didn’t feel emotions, at least, not in the way living races did. They didn’t do happiness, or love, or sorrow but Nathanos admitted he had felt many emotions in the past few days: disgust, anger, disappointment and lots and lots of irritation. Still, he was adamant that lack of emotion was what made the Forsaken strong. There was no need for rest or food, they could battle for days without tiring and his men resolutely trudged on, even as the skin sloughed from their faces and their eyes fell from their sockets. He’d once seen a soldier, who couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age when he’d fallen, barely flinch as his left arm flopped to the dirt to be trampled on by the masses as they marched. He was proud of his race for they didn’t baulk or cower in the face of impossible odds but merely squared their decaying shoulders and continued onwards. The rest of the Horde may have beaten their chests and prided themselves in ‘strength’ and ‘honor’ but it was the Forsaken that always got the job done and none could epitomize that resolute and grim determination more than his Dark Lady. There was nothing he admired more than her tenaciousness, nothing he praised more than her cold and calculated tactics, and nothing he found more intoxicatingly beautiful than her pure unbridled _rage_ on the battlefield.

 

So it came as a shock when the wail of raw pain that carried across the ramparts could be sourced to her.

 

She was unhurt, at least to the standards Nathanos knew her to be unharmed, though she sported many slices across the bare skin of her upper chest that oozed with a thick black ichor- the poor imitation of blood that still trickled through her veins. However, she was bent over; rage and _grief_ etched into her face and he couldn’t understand _why_ until his eyes fell on the broken body cradled in her arms.

 

Jaina Proudmore was dying. It was an undeniable fact from the massive trident sticking through her chest to the torn shreds of skin and sinew and the splintered bone of her ribcage. Her heart still beat, though only to spew more blood onto the desperate hands that pressed against the wound to no avail of stemming the flow. Nathanos didn’t understand. Jaina had been her wife, yes, but the partnership political and with such an imminent threat now on the horizon it was hardly an issue if she were to now expire. The Alliance was in no position to retaliate anymore than the Horde was- it was obvious that a broken union meant nothing now with the two factions neck deep in Naga guts. Why was his menacing, cruel and merciless Warchief crumpled on the ground whimpering and pleading like some pathetic whelp while the finest healers of the horde were ripped from their posts to tend to the Alliance mage.

 

Nathanos growled and strode forward already barking orders as he noticed the confused and worried glances that those closest were shooting in her direction. He would NOT let them see her like this.

 

“Rangers keep firing! I want every _fucking_ Naga you see to be nothing more than arrow riddled corpses desecrated in the dirt! The rest of you stop staring like dumb idiots and return to your posts this instant! I want this area cleared do you understand?” He hated how desperate his voice sounded and despised at the pitying glances that were thrown his way. They would not dare speak it but he could see the doubt in their eyes. He made a mental note to remember their faces so he knew whom to execute when this was all over- nobody would bear witness to the Warchief’s weakness.

 

A blood elf priest gasped and fell back, tears in her eyes and ears drooping in both shame and sorrow. “I…I can’t… her wounds are too great, Warchief.” A troll shaman also slumped back, his chants dying on his lips and defeat in his eyes.

 

“Ay dis be true… death calls to her and we be powerless to stop it.”

 

“I don’t care! Keep trying, send for more healers if you have to… Nathanos!” Red eyes, full of pain, landed on his. “Please send for another priest, even a fucking monk anything! I need... I…”

 

“Sylvanass…” Nathanos already frozen couldn’t help but widen his eyes as Jaina spoke, her voice barely stronger than the faintest whisper.

 

“Yes… yes my heart.” A bloodied hand left the broken chest to smooth back the hair off a damp, pallid forehead.

 

“I’m s…sorry.”

 

“No, oh no it’s okay, _dalah’surfal_ it’s _okay"_  Nathanos could have sworn he’d heard her sniff as though crying tears. Impossible. “You’re not going to die today more healers are on their way I will…”

 

Amazingly Jaina seemed to lift her hand, smoothing a trembling thumb over the burned tear marks as though wiping away invisible droplets. “Shhh I know it’s… the end…I” Jaina drew in a shuddering breath and grimaced as air hissed from her punctured right lung. “…I can feel it.” The elf made a pained noise in the back of her throat but closed her eyes and leaned into the touch.

 

“My love what we talked about before… _please…_ ”

 

“No!” Jaina snapped her voice surprisingly loud in comparison to the whispers before and turned away to cough. Lips wet with blood, she gathered a few more of her remaining breaths and spoke with a passion that impressed even Nathanos. “I made my decision and you gave me your word… Sylvanas. You have to let me go.”

 

Nathanos eyes widened knowing exactly what Jaina meant and he stared in horror as Sylvanas leant back, jaw working as though she were choking on words… or maybe howls of grief.

 

“Sylvanas…”

 

His Dark Lady sat back, eyes burning with raw pain and a helpless indecisiveness he’d never seen before. She’d always been so confident, so sure in her actions even if it meant despicable things. But now… he watched the emotions warring in her expression and she looked so damn lost he wasn’t even sure he knew her anymore, if he’d ever known her at all. It felt like an eternity as he watched her struggle but then it came to her, like an epiphany, as she took an empty breath- an utter vision of heartbreak and shame- before opening her eyes. They glowed like hot coals as her expression smoothed into one of cold, emotionless determination.

 

“Nathanos fetch me Agatha.”

 

He could only stare at her in horror and Jaina for once, seemed to voice his thoughts.

 

“No Sylvanas… you can’t!” Further coughs hacked from her ruined lungs as she struggled to take in breaths.

 

“Do it!” Like an electric shock his Lady’s shout seemed to jolt him from his trance and he started to back away towards the stairs. His eyes swiveled to the dying mage and instantly regretted it.

 

Jaina’s face was contorted into one of horror and betrayal; eyes blood shot and teeth bared. She yelled out in panic and frustration, voice cracking before dissolving into more coughs, blood sprayed from her mouth and nose onto the cold stone tiles. “You swore to me you’d let me go Sylvanas, please don’t do this!”

 

Sylvanas didn’t answer but her hands shook as she continued to numbly wipe the blood off her dying wife’s face.

 

“Sylvanas! Please, _please_ don’t do this to me you _promised_!”

 

“I’m so sorry Jaina…”

 

“Sylvanas!” The cry died off into broken sobs as she curled in on herself, arms wrapping around her ruined torso in reflex to the pain, fighting weakly against the Warchief’s hands as they cradled her. “You… promised...” Her pleas trailed off into a stuttering sigh before pale blue eyes rolled back in their sockets and her body slumped in the undead elf’s arms.

 

Nathanos felt his legs break into a run of their own accord if only to rid him from the desperate sobs that seemed to pierce his very soul. It didn’t take long to find the Val’Kyr who seemed to know before he’d even uttered a breath what she needed to do. They shared a haunted look: binded by their Queen, her will must be done.

 

The battle raged on around them but all Nathanos could do was watch in mute horror as Agatha knelt over the broken body of the Lord Admiral of Kul’Tiras, her large wings shielding the view save for a select few who observed the ordeal with haunted eyes. The Banshee Queen on the other hand seemed to have no expression at all though her burning gaze never left Jaina’s face. Somebody had closed her eyes; he inwardly winced at how peaceful she looked.

 

“If I am to preserve her as she is now in perfect undeath, though her body is freshly fallen, it will cost me dearly. I will no longer be able to raise you alone my Queen. Are you sure this is what you desire?”

 

“It’s not a question of what I desire Val’Kyr” Sylvanas voice was cool and emotionless, her posture militant and stiff, “It’s what I need. Do as I ordered.”

 

“Very well.” The Val’Kyr rose, huge wings unfurling, the body of the recently deceased mage looking like that of a child cradled in her large arms. “Give me until sunrise of the third day and I will return her to you.”

 

They watched in silence as Agatha launched into the air, wings whipping up dirt that swirled around their motionless figures as she carried Jaina off. They continued to stare until her ethereal body merged into the mist and even Sylvanas’s keen eyesight could no longer follow.

 

Nathanos turned with a million questions on his lips and fury in his eyes. What was she _thinking_ forfeiting yet another one of her lifelines to this world on the body of an _enemy_ no less. What even was that spectacle of grief he still didn’t quite believe he’d seen… the words died on his lips when he saw her slump against the wall.

 

“What have you done?” He managed to whisper and Sylvana’s eyes shifted to his, full of remorse and shame.

 

“I betrayed her. Simple as that.”

 

Nathanos had been wrong. The forsaken did feel emotion and what was worse he knew it first hand for an unwelcome yet all too familiar emotion sparked within his long dead heart and began unfurling it’s horrible tendrils across his chest, wrapping around his unused lungs and _squeezing_. He’d not needed to breathe in decades yet for the first time he remembered what it was like to suffocate. He knew this emotion all too well though he’d thought it long forgotten. Fear. He was afraid.


	2. When Angels Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? Awesome- lets get into it.

_We are waiting…_

 

Jaina tried to shake her head from the whispers but it was so _quiet_ that they were in themselves deafening. She whipped her head to the left, eyes wide as she tried to pinpoint her surroundings but all around her snow fell in soft, lazy flakes and the fog so thick that she couldn’t see more than a few yards in front. Her feet were bare on the ice yet it didn’t burn the sensitive skin of her soles. No, the cold she felt wasn’t sharp but more of a dull ache that radiated from within.

 

_Jaina._

 

The voice carried on the wind and the mage desperately spun around, trying to locate it.

 

_Jaina._

Legs stumbled forward, carrying her toward the sound and she soon realized it wasn’t just her feet that were bare. She wrapped trembling arms around her naked body in a desperate bid to hide her sudden immodesty, though she wasn’t quite sure whom she was hiding it from. Something watched her from the shadows.

 

_Come to me…_

“Who are you? Show yourself!” Her voice sounded alien to her ears, ethereal and otherworldly as though the sound was merely projected from her lips rather than a vibration in her throat.

 

Something moved to her right, a hulking figure that was all too familiar and instantly struck fear in her heart. Her horrified gaze moved up to land on burning eyes that pierced her through the twisted metal of it’s helm. The Lich King chuckled cruelly and reached out one clawed, gloved hand in her direction.

 

_Welcome home._

“Jaina!”

 

Jaina gasped and opened her eyes desperately trying to gulp lungfuls of air. The nightmare clearly had dug its tenacious claws in as she still felt like she was drowning.

 

“Jaina listen to me…” something touched her shoulder but she ignored it as she desperately clutched at her chest, trying to remove whatever was blocking her air…

 

“Lady Proudmoore!” The voice was louder now, ringing with authority and Jaina stilled. Her eyes landed on the gaunt form of the Val’Kyr and tried to sit up only to find hands pushing her back. “Be still.” Jaina obeyed, if only to scrutinise the form in front of her. She’d never seen a Val’Kyr up close and to be quite honest she wasn’t sure what she was expecting but it wasn’t this. Agatha leaned against the table, her body tall but wraithlike and skin cracked. Her cheekbones jutted painfully from her face, which was pulled back into a tired grimace. Jaina found herself looking away ashamed, as though were not supposed to be privy to such a powerful creature’s demise.

 

“I need you to listen to me carefully Lady Proudmoore as your very sanity may depend on it.” Despite her fragile appearance Agatha’s voice rang true and strong and Jaina found herself heeding the command.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was beginning to set in Ogrimmar but the city was still busy in its movements. The battle had been won but barely, they'd managed to push back the invasion from Bolarus with heavy casualties on both factions. Portals were made, the wounded carried back on stretchers as exhausted and mana-drained healers of both Horde and Alliance focused on the worst of the casualties. Water, rations and bandages were running dangerously low.

 

Nathanos observed the chaos; unable to hide the sneer of disgust on his face at seeing four Alliance warriors hoist an unconscious Tauren on their shoulders and head in the direction of the medical tents. He was ripped from his brooding thoughts by the large bellow of a horn that rose above the din of people shouting orders and the cries of the wounded. The Alliance gunship glided to an unhurried stop, rotors tilting back and Nathanos could just make out the small figures scurrying about on deck to bring it to a standstill. Oh great. The boy-king was here.

 

Anduin had no time for pleasantries. Armor still dented and bloodied, he pushed past a forsaken guard that greeted him, not even flinching as several dark rangers readied their bows at him in response to his violent outburst. His usually soft blue eyes were furious, pupils narrowing to mere pinpoints as he made a beeline for Nathanos, sword practically bristling in his clenched palm.

 

“Blightcaller” he hissed and Nathanos found himself stiffening to square up to the King’s angry advance. “Where is your Warchief… where is _Sylvanas!”_

 

“My Queen is currently being attended to.” Nathanos knew if he were still alive he’d be reacting in much the same way. However, he could only find the High King of Stormwind’s wild outburst to be incredibly tiresome. “If you were to refrain from yelling in my face I’m sure you can obtain audience with her much quicker.” He turned, gesturing for the cub to follow to where both Baine and Lor’themar were waiting.

 

He knew it was only a matter of time before he could no longer stall the Alliance and other leaders of the Horde. He’d been meticulous in silencing those who’d watched the spectacle but it had become pretty obvious when the Val’Kyr had swooped from the battlefield, the body in her arms clad in the unmistakable blue and gold of Jaina’s iconic armor. Anyone with half a brain would be able to put two and two together and from the looks of it Anduin was _furious._

 

Good. Fury he could deal with at least, the tortured gaze of Sylvanas as she finally allowed the forsaken warlock to tend to her had been much harder to stomach. Oh but she’d been _glorious_ on the battlefield. Arms and face still smeared with the bright crimson of Proudmoore’s blood, she’d raged against the Naga armies below. Fangs bared, her primal shriek stalled even the tentacled giants that ravaged the harbor, before she’d reduced them to nothing but twitching limbs in the mud. Nathanos shook the thoughts from his mind and set his jaw in determination, stepping aside to let Anduin in.

 

Baine was the only one who stood in respect while Lor’themar remained seated, staring at the human impassively. Nathanos gestured for the King to sit but Anduin shook his head.

 

“I will stand until the _Warchief_ arrives. Where are the others?”

 

“Saurfang has proved his loyalty to be… questionable in the past so such as he is not privy to this meeting. Gallywix… well I think it better if he is to remain in the dark on matters as sensitive as this.” Anduin nodded, unsurprised.

 

“Whisperwind and Greymane will be on their way shortly, though I am happy to commence this meeting without them, as you can see I am quite keen for questions to be answered.”

 

“And questions answered you will have.” Anduin stiffened as the all too familiar echo of the Banshee Queen’s voice reached his ears.

 

Sylvanas stepped into the room and Anduin found his previous anger returning only for it to be momentarily quashed in surprise at her appearance. She looked tired, well as tired as a Banshee Queen could look; he was astounded to see her face a touch more gaunt than usual, hair in slight disarray and a minor limp to her gait. He wasn’t too familiar with how Sylvanas exactly… worked, other than through petty rumors he didn’t feel inclined to entertain: how she _drank the blood of her enemies_ , how she _slept in a coffin in the dampest, darkest dungeon she could find_. The rest were only snippets he’d managed to squeeze out of Jaina, though that had been equally as frustrating since the mage had clammed up at any mention of her relationship with her wife. Still it wasn’t any less jarring to see her… unwell. His shock at her arrival almost caused him to falter but he took a deep breath and allowed his face to tilt up to meet hers.

 

“First and foremost, before we discuss anything else I need to know what you did with Jaina Proudmoore.” The room was silent save for the creak of a chair protesting as Baine hunched over, soulful eyes closed and ears flicking nervously, Lor’themar, as usual, kept his expression neutral.

 

“Isn’t it obvious little lion?” Sylvanas almost sounded bored, “she perished on the battlefield and I raised her.”He’d been expecting a blunt response from her but the words still caused him to audibly flinch and he felt his chest tighten as he tried to suck in calming breaths.

 

“Is…” he cleared his throat and tried again, “Is she okay?” Sylvanas flinched this time and had Anduin been looking anywhere other than at her face he would have missed it.

 

“Physically? Yes. She will be back in Ogrimmar in a couple of days.”

 

“Physically? Sylvanas, I know little of the Forsaken and what one goes through in undeath and perhaps that is my fault for not furthering my research but…” he swallowed knowing the weight of the words that would soon follow; “did she want this?” Voices muttered in response to his question and again Anduin barely caught the fleeting look of pain that crossed the Warchief’s face.

 

Nathanos butted in, voice thinly veiled with anger. “She was delirious with pain, we couldn’t have possibly known what she…”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Anduin felt sick.

 

“She begged me to let her die, I betrayed her trust, our marriage, and everything we stood for.” Nathanos looked ready to faint and impossibly even more color seemed to drain from his already pallid face.

 

“My Queen you are not making this any easier for…”

 

“I knew it. TRAITOR!” Anduin hadn’t noticed when Genn had even got here but his presence was known now when the wolf let out a furious, bestial roar and lunged for the Warchief’s throat.

 

* * *

 

 Jaina wasn’t sure how long she’d sat watching the snow drifting outside the open doorway. Her wails of anguish had died out long ago though her hands still shook and her jaw continuously clenched and unclenched. One hand lay against her chest, fingers digging into her skin as the absence of a heartbeat was harshly reminded. It was so quiet now, without the rush of air in her lungs, the rhythmic thump of her heart, the steady roar of blood in her ears. The noises which had been her constant companion since the very day she’d entered the world kicking and screaming, a helpless baby in her mother’s arms, were gone. Again she’d been dragged back into the world kicking and screaming but this time there were no arms to hold her, no soft voice to sooth and comfort. She was alone.

 

Well alone in the sense that she wasn’t exactly going to get any comfort from the sickly looking Val’Kyr who seemed to be slumped motionless in the centre of the floor, eyes closed and a soft glow emanating from her chest. Jaina guessed she was meditating, not that it interested her much, she just wanted wake from this terrible nightmare.

 

There had been another Val’Kyr momentarily present in the time she’d spent here; though, other than to drop strips of what looked like dried rabbit meat on the table and instruct Jaina to eat, she’d not since heard from her again. Agatha had explained only flesh would aid her in healing her own body and even then she’d find it difficult to consume. She’d picked at the offering in a half-hearted attempt before grimacing at how it seem to turn to sawdust in her mouth and giving up. Another pleasure now denied to her.

 

So now she continued to curl up in a poor effort to soothe herself and watch the snowfall, trying to take peace in the fact that at least the one who’d betrayed her wasn’t here. She’d taken the time between bouts of grief to draw an inventory of her surroundings and surmised she was most likely in Northrend since at this time of year nowhere else had snow. She guessed from the faint scent of salt from the sea they were at the southern part of the continent where the ocean hadn’t yet frozen over completely, perhaps the Howling Fjords or the Borean Tundra. She’d been relieved when she’d reached out to the waves and found they stirred faintly in response, perhaps not all things had betrayed her yet.

 

Agatha had told her she was lucky to have been raised and preserved so soon after death- that many Forsaken had dealt with the loss of nerves, senses, even vision. Jaina snorted. Lucky. As if having the only person she trusted turn on her like that was lucky, as if having her very life force violated and twisted to the Banshee’s will was considered a blessing. She’d begged to be free of this fate and her _loving wife_ had ignored her cries. Realising this, with a tightening in her chest, that perhaps this had all been an illusion, she’d never had a choice to begin with and her fate planned all along- simply a powerful puppet for the Queen.

 

Sylvanas had been known to play the long game.

 

A keening whimper rang out as her body once again shook with sobs and her eyes burned with tears that never came.

 

* * *

 

 

“You bitch” Genn snarled, thrashing against the powerful wards that held him, white fur bristling and fangs bared with intent to not only kill but violently dismember the elf that stood before him, body in a defensive stance though her face remained passive. “Do you mean to do this with all of us? Bend us all to your twisted will- starting with your wife and turning her into some…abomination?”

 

“Genn…” Anduin started but it was already too late. Sylvanas turned to him, eyes burning and ears pinned back.

 

“If you cannot control your mutt I suggest you put him outside.” The hiss in her voice made his skin crawl.

 

“You have no right to make demands in all this!” Genn howled.

 

“I don’t know, last time I checked this is _Horde_ territory and she is the Warchief.” Lor’themar unhelpfully piped up and Anduin resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the immense satisfaction the blood elf seemed to be taking in response to the worgen’s explosive reaction.

 

Genn seemed to have reduced himself to snarls and struggles with the sole intent of killing Sylvanas and the young king could already feel a headache forming behind his eyes to go along with the nauseous sensation in his stomach. Anduin pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Enough, Genn, this is about Jaina and if we are to get anywhere I need you to calm down.”

 

“I will take him with me and leave.” Tyrande stepped out from the shadows. “I only came here to confirm what I already suspected- that the Banshee is up to her old tricks again and this time Jaina was the one to suffer for it.” Her glowing gaze swept across the room with further distain before landing on Anduin. “I’ll be waiting on the ship…don't try to stop me.”

 

Anduin wanted to protest but knew it were better not to argue with the night elf right now. Undeath wasn’t just uncomfortable to her but a deep violation of her entire culture; he knew nothing he could say on this would change her mind. He sighed heavily as the objecting snarls of Genn faded and felt a twinge of relief as Sylvanas motioned her guards to file out, taking Baine and Lor'themar with them. Nathanos hesitated but Sylvanas jerked her head in a dismissive fashion and he reluctantly followed suit. 

 

"Alright little lion, it's just you and me now." Sylvanas pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit. "It's about time we had a long talk."

 

* * *

 

“Proudmoore.”

 

Jaina’s only response to the disembodied voice of Agatha was a slight tilt of her head, acknowledging she’d heard.

 

“Proudmoore I am dying.” That got her attention. Jaina shifted to find Agatha slumped against the table, the wood creaking under weight, as her emaciated body seemed to sink even further against it’s supports.

 

“Raising you took much more out of me than I could have ever suspected, though I have done my work well, it has cost me my life.” Jaina watched as bluish white feathers drifted to the floor, even her wings were slowly decaying. “You were my hardest task and my greatest achievement- the Dark Lady will be proud.”

 

“Proud?” Jaina felt her lips turn down in a grimace. “There is nothing great about this, Agatha, she took away your life to force it upon someone who had no desire for…this” she gestured to herself and her eyes narrowed at the look of satisfaction on the Val’Kyr’s face.

 

“ _This_ is a gift.” Agatha responded and with great effort pushed herself up from the table, which creaked in protest. “You have been granted with a second chance, a chance many would beg for if given the choice.”

 

Jaina made an exasperated sound and turned her face away but the Val’Kyr rushed forward, in a display of passion she didn’t even know a being such as her was capable of, and grabbed her wrists in her large, skeletal hands. “I was ordered to bring you back for a reason Lady Jaina. Whatever that reason may be I am not privy to, but I trust my Queen and I am _honored_ to have raised you. Whatever it is she sees in you, you are deemed worthy and I happily gave my life for that fact. Please do not cast aside my efforts as though they mean nothing- whether you chose this or not is irrelevant for you are _here_ , you are _Jaina Proudmoore_ , and to throw away this second chance would not only dishonor me but the very people you fought for.” Agatha pressed something cold into her fingers and Jaina looked down at the small object: a hand mirror. “Look upon yourself and admire my work for my work is magnificent.” With that declaration she slid to the floor, her breaths rattling in her chest as her skin split and peeled, revealing wasted muscle and bone beneath. Jaina recoiled but felt her eyes burn with emotion at the look of utter triumph and peace upon Agatha’s face.

 

Jaina turned away from the pitiful sight and braced herself as she stared at her own reflection. A small vain part of her felt relieved she seemed free of the ravages most forsaken endured and more that of a death knight, her face was deathly pale yet perfectly intact, save for a faint scar that ran from the hollow of her cheek to her jaw, joined by another faded one over her lip where she imagined it had been split from the cold. Her hair was now fully white and she felt emotion swell in her chest that there was now no evidence of the original dusky blonde of her younger years. However, it was the eyes that disturbed her the most; they glowed as though her very soul were begging to escape the confines of the body it was unnaturally trapped in- glacier blue, like that of the ice that confined Bolvar Foredragon to his throne…

 

Jaina winced and set the mirror aside. She’d seen enough.

 

“I have made preparations for you to go home.” Agatha’s voice caught as though struggling for breath and gestured through the doorway to two tall figures emerging from the snow, headed in their direction. She was fading fast and Jaina idly wondered if the Val’Kyr was as at peace with her demise as she seemed to be.

 

“To Kul’Tiras?” Jaina felt her throat tighten in panic at seeing her mother again.

 

“No, to Ogrimmar.”

 

Jaina stared at her feet and swallowed. That was a whole other ordeal she didn’t want to face either.

 

“That will have to do. I guess.” She paused as if to go, then turned back to Agatha one more time, a slightly softer look in her expression. “For what it’s worth, thank you, you followed your orders… well.” For a moment it seemed to return Agatha back to life as she sat up a little straighter, eyes burning just a little brighter as she offered what Jaina guessed to be a smile though her sharp teeth made it more of a sinister grin.

 

“Oh I know. I was _magnificent.”_

 

Jaina didn’t stick around to watch her die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: A pissed off Mage vs a depressed Warchief: who will win- find out next time.


	3. Return to me.

_Six months ago._

Jaina teleported Sylvanas in and the two fell about laughing, Jaina having to lean on her staff slightly as she wiped at the tears of mirth from her eyes. Sylvanas sobered up and cleared her throat only to grin widely, fangs and all, as Jaina fell about cackling again.

 

“The look on his _face!_ Oh my I honestly think that’s the first time I’ve actually seen a man spontaneously combust. He was furious!”

 

“You mean to tell me you’ve never set anyone ablaze?” Sylvanas kicked off her boots and began working on unbuckling her armour flicking one ear in amusement as Jaina struggled to calm her breaths. The mage sniggered and shook her head.

 

“Nope, fire magic isn’t exactly my strong point… I think Antonidus figured that out pretty quickly after the amount of times I set his classroom ablaze. I just never could get a good enough control of it…” Jaina grunted as she worked to loosen the strap on her shoulder. “Lighting candles, setting dry timber aflame? Easy… Combusting people? Not so much.”

 

“Hmm” Sylvanas didn’t seem convinced, holding out a hand to take Jaina’s staff while Jaina helped her untie the laces on her leather breastplate. The two worked in perfect tandem, helping one another out of their respective clothing as they talked. Sylvanas couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment the two had become so familiar with one another but she felt as though she’d long since crossed a threshold where she found herself actually missing her wife when she was gone. Jaina had been in Stormwind for a couple of weeks helping pick up the pieces following a particularly nasty siege on the city itself: she’d spent most of her time strengthening magical wards and helping rebuild- too busy to delegate much time together. Sylvanas hadn’t had a free interval either, pouring over the boring yet essential details of how to feed the _living_ members of her Horde. More rations, more stockpiling, more lumber, more fish… the lists had been endless. Now she just wanted to relax with her wife, even if it was just for the night.

 

Dressed down in a comfortable black tunic and leggings, Sylvanas motioned for Jaina to join her and smiled softly as the mage made her way over, a wary look on her face before her features smoothed out and she settled down into her wife’s lap, closing her eyes as deft fingers began to untie her signature braid.

 

“You’re in a good mood today.” Jaina stated and Sylvanas sighed, fingers stilling in her hair and tilting her face to one side.

 

“Am I not allowed to enjoy the company of my wife?” Jaina rolled her eyes, suppressing a shudder at the soft, cold touches of the banshee’s fingers as she gently swept the wayward strands of hair off her face.

 

“Considering mere _days_ ago you tried to stab me, I’ve given up second guessing your actions.” Jaina let out a sharp puff of air as her hair was tugged a little more roughly than before.

 

“You tested me” Sylvanas shrugged. “Besides I wasn’t going to follow through.”

 

“You threw a knife at my _face_.”

 

“…Because I knew you could deflect it with ease.”

 

“Sylvanas…” Jaina sighed and lay back, noticing how her wife’s eyes blazed a darker red, her gaze hungrily following her movements. The intensity of it caused her to fight back a tremor. Staring up she held that gaze, noticing how tense the elf’s shoulders were, how her posture seemed stiff even as she cautiously brought her hands to rest on her shoulders. “Kiss me.”

 

Sylvanas, Queen of the Banshees, Warchief of the Horde, sat frozen like a stag caught in the crosshairs of an arrow. Her eyes scanned the mage, an uncertain flicker in her gaze as they tested for any sign of a trick or deception. It wasn’t like it would be their first kiss but it caught her off guard at how casually Jaina demanded it. Blue eyes, darkened with lust stared resolutely back and Sylvanas cast her gaze downwards, over the graceful slope of her wife’s nose, along the sharp jut of her jawline to the attractive flush across her neck before reluctantly falling upon those inviting lips. She wanted to pull away, chastise Jaina for making such a bold assumption of what she wanted. She hated how Jaina _knew_ , how she voiced her intentions before Sylvanas even had a chance to acknowledge them herself. She also despised at how she found herself already leaning down, licking her dry lips in anticipation, and sliding one hand up the delicious heat of Jaina’s neck to rest on the side of her face. She hated a lot of things save for the delectable press of those soft, plump lips against hers and felt heat coil in her belly as Jaina made a pleased noise in the back of her throat, the sound rumbling against her fingertips as her thumb softly stroked across her jaw and pressed teasingly against her windpipe. This kiss was soft, unhurried, and Sylvanas felt her eyes roll back a little as her chest pushed against Jaina’s inviting body heat, feeling soft breasts press against the thin fabric of her shirt. Tongue teased tongue and Sylvanas nipped a few more times at her swollen lower lip before pulling away, smirking at how blown Jaina’s pupils had become.

 

“Hmm now I _really_ don’t feel like throwing knives at you.” Jaina rolled her eyes and playfully nudged the shoulder of the woman on top.

 

“You’re insufferable.”

 

“Yet something tells me you like that…” Sylvanas purred as she dropped her lips to Jaina’s neck, reveling at how her wife’s body shuddered against the exploration of her mouth.

* * *

 

_Present_

“Lady Proudmoore, we have arrived.”

 

Jaina blinked and slowly dismissed her thoughts, wincing at the sudden drop in air pressure as the plague bat descended over the familiar dusty red cliffs of Ogrimmar. Unable to be left alone by the two Val’Kyr, who seemed to be assigned both escort and jailor, she’d been forced to travel by less conventional means than she was used to. It had been a while since she’d flown on the back of a beast and even longer since she’d had need for one, it was a strange sensation to descend so quickly from the air and feel her stomach drop.

 

She felt it lurch again as the Val’Kyr leant back, powerful arms flexing while she guided the creature in a spiral toward the buildings below. The first few rays of the light were starting to the warm the murky blue of the nighttime sky. The city was mostly asleep but she could make out the glint of torches as a few figures waited up on the ramparts. The bat landed with a crude scrape of claws on stone, kicking up dust around them and as soon as it was safe to do so, Jaina jumped down, grunting slightly as she hit the dirt, glad to have her feet safely on the ground. Scanning those who watched her in abject disbelief she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset on not seeing the Warchief slumped cockily against the wall or even catch a flash of glowing red eyes observing from the back of the crowd. She supposed she should be glad, not quite sure what she’d do if Sylvanas had been the first to greet her; it was hard to believe that only a few days ago returning to her wife would have brought her immense joy. Now she just felt sick.

 

“Where is she?” A voice rang out, clear and cutting in the frigid morning air, causing everyone to flinch slightly. A couple of forsaken guards slunk back to reveal Anduin clad in his gold armor, still dented and stained from the skirmish days earlier, the same battle that had claimed her life.

 

“Anduin?” Jaina hated how small her voice was in that moment but her thoughts were cut short as arms wrapped snuggly around her. It had been so long since Anduin had hugged her, not since she’d said goodbye to him on the Horde airship nearly two years ago where he’d held her and begged that she didn’t have to marry the Warchief, while knowing that it was the only option. She felt his arms shake and numbly squeezed him back, eyes burning with tears she couldn’t shed.

 

“I’m so sorry, Auntie” he murmured into her shoulder and Jaina tightened her hold, closing her eyes and reveling in the contact, deeply touched at how he hadn’t held back in his affection. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted but I can’t pretend I’m elated to have you back.”

 

He pulled back and Jaina flinched as he trailed burning fingers across her cheek. “I…I was expecting worse” the king flushed a little ashamed. He didn’t know what he’d been imagining but he was happy and unhappy how much of Jaina he could see in the undead human that stood in front of him. Happy that the ravages of death did not seem to be apparent unlike the steadily decomposing guards who stood around them but unhappy that he could see every ounce of pain in her all too familiar expression. He watched her glowing eyes focus on something behind him and felt his lips twist into a frown knowing who she was looking at.

 

The tauren warrior stood back, trying to blend into the crowd despite his hulking figure, large shoulders slumped and ears flicking uncomfortably as he shifted one hoof in the dirt.

 

“Baine” Jaina whispered and he looked away ashamed. Anduin fought the urge to shake him by the horns and tell him to for once ignore his shamanistic nature and hug the damn girl who was hurting more than anyone, but instead he tightened his arms around Jaina and glared in his direction.

 

“Jaina I’m…” Baine sighed, his deep voice full of sorrow. “I’m glad you’re ok.” He turned and lumbered away shrugging past the tense form of Genn, still in his worgen shape, watching the scene with narrowed yellow eyes, muzzle wrinkled in a half-snarl.

 

“Jaina I’m sorry it will take a while for some to…”

 

“Don’t.” Jaina snapped, fists tightening and her jaw clenched. “I _get_ it. I’m an abomination.”

 

“No you’re not, you’re sti…”

 

“No, Anduin it’s true, but I’m _here_ now…” her voice raised a little in the direction of Genn who at least had the sense to look abashed, “…so lets get on with it.”

 

Anduin knew better than to argue with the mage; Jaina was a lot of things but her stubbornness was tenfold to his and once she’d made up her mind it was impossible to convince her otherwise. He smiled grimly in respect at how quickly she was able to set her shoulders and return to her normal, authoritative self, already barking orders and burying her emotion so that only a few could notice the grimace that touched her lips. Anduin quickened his pace to keep up with her as she pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and motioned for one of the champions to fetch her staff and pack. She paused to turn slightly, arm half raised as if to wave at the Val’Kyr who leapt into the air with a few powerful strokes from her wings, but thought better and continued her march toward Grommash Hold.

 

“I hate to be requesting this from you so soon” Jaina stated calmly as Anduin fell into step beside her “but I wish to return home… to Kul’Tiras.” Anduin did his best to keep calm but the falter in his step alerted Jaina of his discomfort. “You seem troubled by this, am I not allowed to take solace in my family?”

 

“No!” Anduin blurted. “By all means you have every right to go home it’s just… Sylvanas…”

 

“ _Sylvanas_ won’t be coming with me” Jaina snapped and Anduin gritted his teeth as his mind whirred, figuring out the best way he could explain his concerns.

“It’s not that its…”

 

“He thinks you’re under my control.” Jaina halted so fast that Anduin nearly stumbled over his own feet trying to come to a stop. _Oh no._

 

Sylvanas stepped out from the shadows of the hold, eyes burning like embers as they caught the rays of the sunrise. It was the first time Anduin had seen her out of her armor and he was taken aback by how _small_ she seemed, delicate and well…elven, dressed simply in dark cloth and protective leathers. Her hair was pushed over one shoulder and her arms hung loosely at her sides as though she were making great effort to appear as non-threatening as possible. He felt a small pang in his chest at the realization she was probably, no, _definitely_ doing this for Jaina’s comfort at the expense of looking weak in front of her Horde. “I can assure you, little lion, I have no sway over any of her thoughts or actions; her will is, and always will be, her own.”

 

Several things happened at once. Jaina twisted from his grip, several guards cried out running toward the commotion. Nathanos seemed to materialize from the shadows to step in front of his Warchief and Genn snarled.

 

“ _You…”_ Jaina’s eyes flared an electric blue as sparks crackled from her fingertips.

 

“Oh _shit”_ Genn murmured but made no move to stop her, opting instead for the safer task of pushing Anduin out the way.

 

Everyone braced for the meltdown, for the missiles of arcane, for the shattering of frost or the surge of a summoned water elemental but nothing happened. The sparks stuttered and died in Jaina’s palm and she stared at her hands in horror. Her magic failed and she gasped at the pain of realization- she couldn’t feel her connection to the arcane.

 

She began to laugh hysterically as the guards pushed her to the ground, restraining her arms and shoving her face into the dirt. She snarled and spat, still fruitlessly trying to inflict any form of pain on the frozen form of the unarmed banshee who watched her struggles with pain etched across her expression. This was her life now, restrained by these brutish orcs and at the mercy of her Warchief, Undead, powerless, alone.

 

“Fuck you Sylvanas” she hissed as her laughter turned to broken sobs. Nathanos looked ready to deck her in the face and Anduin found himself drawing his sword, blue eyes flashing as he dared the undead champion to lay a finger on her.

 

“Release her!” Sylvanas snapped as the orcs roughly pulled Jaina to her feet, “right now you idiotic brutes!” her voice raised to a shout as the guards stepped back, dropping their arms from their captive. The mage shoved them away, taking deep breaths out of reflex and roughly wiping the dirt from her face. Burning blue eyes scanned desperately around for an escape.

 

For a moment, everything was silent save for Jaina’s hollow breathing and the creak of a bowstring as a dark ranger notched an arrow in warning. Anduin broke from his shock and quickly ran to her side, pulling a comforting yet restraining arm around her shoulders and pulling her away. “C’mon Jaina lets go get your stuff, we’ll set sail for Kul’Tiras immediately, I promise lets just… get out of here.”

 

Jaina nodded numbly, still looking at her hands before clenching them into fists and letting herself be lead away.

 

“What the fuck just happened?” Genn voiced everyone’s thoughts and Nathanos rushed to Sylvanas’s side.

 

“My Queen are you alright? We should get you inside and armored up, a crowd is gathering and we may need you to address what happened.”

 

Sylvanas barely heard him watching the retreating form of her wife. She’d expected the anger to be honest but it deeply concerned her that Jaina’s magic had failed like that; while she couldn’t empathize she could at least understand that a mage losing control of their power would be a traumatic experience. The muscles in her legs twitched almost in reflex to run after her, to pull her into her arms and soothe her, but what good would that do; Jaina hated her and that was a price Sylvanas was willing to pay if it meant she still existed. She squared her shoulders and motioned for Nathanos to lead her inside; now was not the time to appear weak.

 

“Are you really just going to let her go like that?” Nathanos questioned, eyebrows raised. “Once she’s in Alliance territory it will be impossible to get her back.”

 

“Ah but you don’t know Jaina like I do.” Sylvanas came to a standstill and let her armorer attend to her, “she’s not one to run from her problems. Whether it be to talk or to kill me, she will come back.” She shifted her gaze to the window and beyond that to the forms of Genn, Anduin and Jaina retreating toward the gunship. The rays of morning sun caught the flecks of gold in her red eyes, causing them to glow a deep, burning orange. Nathanos swallowed and looked away. “And when she does…” Sylvanas inclined her head and allowed the forsaken man to tighten the straps on her gauntlets, “…I will be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think Jaina's pissed? Wait until you see Katherine. 
> 
> Just sayin'...
> 
> Momma bear be angry.


	4. Burning boats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just warning you a lot of my ideas about arcane magic and how the undead are able to use it/struggle with it are mostly a mix of speculation and pure imagination I wouldn't get too hung up on the details on whether it is canon or not other than I read up on a Death Knight rp forum and somebody had some points which I found interesting and have incorporated into my story with some of my own flair.

_3 years ago:_

Katherine Proudmoore was not happy. The soft rays of the morning light shone through mists that cloaked the sea, casting the area in an ethereal glow. The hollow slap of waves against ship boughs, the creak of rigging and the rhythmic clink of the anchor chain were the only sounds to reach her ears as people settled down quietly aboard the Kul’Tiran flagship. Horde and Alliance banners flapped either side of a long strip of carpet, which lead lengthways down the main deck, stopping just shy of the large ornate doors that marked the entrance of the captain’s cabin. Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde stood to attention at the end, shoulders stiffly set and an arrogant yet intense expression on her face. Her armor, made entirely of elven and forsaken design, was polished to shine, the metal buckles and skulls gleaming almost white in the sun. Katherine wanted to boot her off her ship.

 

For a brief moment her irritation and anger fell away when her daughter stepped up beside her and took her arm. Despite the dire circumstances, Jaina looked magnificent. The bold, greens and golds of the Lord Admiral uniform contrasted wonderfully with her pale hair and skin, her braid was fixed neatly, the wayward strands tied into smaller plaits and secured with a broach at the back of her head. The regalia that adorned her chest and shoulder gleamed in the light but did nothing to detract from the silvery-white sparkle of the anchor pendant that hung above her breasts. Katherine had to look away before her vision became clouded with tears. The beauty of her daughter was wasted on such a creature. She didn’t weep as she lead Jaina carefully down the aisle, didn’t flinch when Lor’Themar took her daughter from her arm and tied the horde red ribbon around her daughter and the Warchief’s hands, binding them in the Quel’Thalas tradition. She studied Jaina’s face closely and felt her hairs raise on end at the ghostly echo of the Banshee’s voice as she recited her vows in Thalassian. Katherine didn’t understand much of the language but she knew Jaina did and her eyes narrowed at the flush of anger on her daughter’s cheeks, seemingly in response to whatever the undead elf had said.

 

The ceremony was quick and surprisingly painless; nobody had shouted out objections, no axes were thrown or swords drawn… what a pity. Had any commotion started Katherine would have been the first to leap into it, pistol drawn and pointed at that smug expression on Sylvanas’s face. Alas it was not to be and Jaina, her brave, sweet daughter, who she’d only just got back was now being whisked away into the clawed clutches of that Horde… _barbarian._ Part of her wanted to yank her daughter into her arms, jump onto the next ship and drop the main sail, leaving this whole nightmare in their wake as they sailed away from their worries. She looked at Jaina, the way her jaw jutted out defiantly, the way those stormy blue eyes didn’t break contact with the sinister red gaze of her counterpart. No, Jaina wasn’t just her sweet little child anymore, she was strong in so many ways, been through more than Katherine could imagine; if anyone could survive this marriage of convenience, it would be her. Katherine almost felt pride blossom in her chest, tentative tendrils unfurling against the cloying fear and queasiness of giving her daughter away.

 

The priest announced the ceremony complete; a mixture of cheers, roars and chanting exploded from the audience behind her and from the surrounding ships moored close by. The very timbers of the boats seemed to sag as everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. There was peace.

 

For now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “King Wrynn!” The King of Stormwind looked up wearily from the maps and charts on his desk as the tall form of a worgen shrugged itself awkwardly through the low doorway. “Greymane would like to speak with you.”

 

Anduin slumped a little further into his chair wanting to avoid the whole conversation but lifted his hand in a halfhearted gesture toward the guard and sighed, “Send him in.”

 

One worgen slunk out and another ducked in, ears flattening in irritation at the low ceiling of the cabin. “I’m sorry to disturb you my king but I fear we will not have much time to talk once we arrive in Kul’Tiras.” Genn’s voice sounded even more gruff than usual. Anduin frowned and gestured to the chair in front of him.

 

“Please sit, the gnomes didn’t exactly take height into account when they built this vessel.” Genn grunted and did as Anduin asked, awkwardly hunching over and clasping his long claws together as he waited for his king to look up from the map he was currently studying.  

 

Anduin cleared his throat and leaned back to regard Genn with raised eyebrows. “You don’t look happy.”

 

“Where’s Jaina?”

 

“Up on the front deck.”

 

“Hmph,” Genn growled softly “she’s not been anywhere else in the two days we have been in the travelling.”

 

“The fresh air seems to calm her.” Anduin replied levelly.

 

“It’s unnerving the crew.”

 

“Unnerving the crew? Or unnerving _you?_ ” Anduin folded his arms. “Sometimes I think you’ve spent too much time with Tyrande, your aversion to undeath seems personal.”

 

“It is personal!” Genn snarled and leaned forward, one large hand grasping the armrest of his chair, which groaned in protest under his grip. He pointed at Anduin with the other. “The banshee planned this all along! She might claim to fight alongside us but we turn our backs for one second, we drop our guard for just a _moment_ and she’s raising our brothers, sisters, wives and mothers.” Genn’s lip curled over his canines and his yellow eyes flashed. “If we don’t watch our backs we may wake up one day with a knife in it, another one of her mindless troops in her nightmare world. One day we lose Jaina, the next? I lose you.”

 

“Genn!” Anduin spat out, his voice surprisingly authoritative despite his weariness. “Jaina was already lost to us the moment she boarded that airship bound for Ogrimmar three years ago. She would have been lost even if Sylvanas hadn’t acted, just another broken body amongst thousands on the battlefield. I despise that Sylvanas broke Jaina’s trust, I _hate_ her for the pain and anguish she has caused, but I can’t help it that some small part of me is glad.” The armrest splintered under Genn’s grip. “Glad…” Anduin raised his voice, commanding Genn to let him finish before protesting, “…that I got Jaina back. We’ve been given a second chance, a chance that many might not agree with but I can tell you I would much rather deliver Jaina to her mother in her current state now, than remains in a casket.”

 

The wolf fell silent, ears pinned back as his eyes flickered to the floor. “Maybe it would have been for the best.”

 

“Genn!” Anduin snapped. “How could you say such a thing? Jaina is _family!_ ”

 

“Family means nothing the moment Sylvanas flips that kill switch. Do you really mean to believe her when she tells us she has willingly relinquished control over one of the most powerful mages in Azeroth?”

 

“I actually do.” Anduin muttered and Genn narrowed his eyes.

 

“Explain.”

 

Anduin shifted uncomfortably, suddenly wanting to be having this conversation with anyone but his bitter and grizzled advisor right now. “Sylvanas is a lot of things- more than either of us took for granted. She’s a despicable person; she takes what’s best for her people without honour or consequence, she is one for action over words and her actions have cost the lives of thousands. However, there is a method to her madness, an underlying current to every single thing she has done. She is afraid.”

 

“We are _all_ afraid!” Genn snapped “our supplies are low, our armies thinning by the second, we work day and night farming our fields until they can produce no more, fortifying our cities, training our soldiers until they drop from exhaustion and it’s still. Not. Enough. And… now Sylvanas has proven yet again to be an unstable ally in all of this! I can’t believe you are even thinking of defending her actions!” Genn snarled in disgust.

 

“Don’t for one second think I am defending her!” Anduin stood, his chair scraping back violently from the sudden force of his movements. “She is and always will be nothing more than a temporary ally, a lesser evil in this… _fucked up_ world we live in.” Anduin paused, chest heaving as he tried to calm his temper. “What I’m trying to say is Sylvanas is frightened. Scared of losing her people, terrified of losing her life and absolutely petrified of losing potentially the one person she might actually love. Yes, Genn, I believe she loved Jaina. That is the reason why she raised her, that is the reason why she has her free will.”

 

“To think such a creature is capable of loving…” Genn spat in disgust but stopped himself and sighed. “How can you be so certain?” Anduin glanced up sheepishly and lowered his voice.

 

“Because I know Jaina; prying information from her is near impossible but even she cannot help but offer small snippets here and there, not to mention what information our spies brought back…” The young priest blushed slightly. “I am all for entertaining the thought of Sylvanas being nothing more than a heartless undead ruler but from what I gather, her feelings for her wife went far beyond that of a political convenience.”

 

“That somehow makes it worse.” Genn huffed. Anduin nodded reluctantly in agreement.

 

“I thought I had her figured out, I really did. Finding all this out… well, it honestly terrifies me.”

 

"So what do we do with Jaina?" Genn didn't look angry this time, well at least as calm as the face of a worgen could appear, and Anduin appreciated that immensely."We can't exactly leave her in Kul'Tiras alone?" 

 

"She won't be alone, I have something...no, _someone_ who could be a huge help to us." Anduin shifted the map aside to reveal a handwritten letter, already stamped and sealed by his own hand, waiting to be sent at a moments notice. He pushed it with trembling fingers in Genn's direction and pursed his lips as the worgen's eyes shifted to read the cursive scrawl. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“My lady!” A forsaken warlock stumbled over his own feet, well, foot; the other had become more of a broken, rotting stump that served more as a peg leg than anything useful, but did little to deter the haste at which he made towards his queen. “It is an honor to have you here at our humble camp. Your timing could not be more crucial; we are on our last legs! Well,” he paused and looked down at his lower half with a self-deprecating chuckle, “I meant that figuratively but I suppose literally as well.”

 

Sylvanas cast an eye over the remains of what used to be a fortified military outpost. Walls and lookout posts were no more than piles of splintered, blackened wood; a few tents were hastily resurrected, sagging under the relentless torrent of wind and rain. She could make out the exhausted forms of her horde working doggedly at salvaging what materials they could from the wreckage. A sorry state it was in indeed.

 

“Status reports if you will.” The warlock snapped to attention, the look of awe at seeing his banshee queen settled into something more business like as he furrowed his threadbare eyebrows and made an effort to stand a little more upright.

 

“Of the 78 men you have sent here 39 have met their final death. We have condensed our remaining soldiers into one platoon and our priority has been to set up wards, traps and strengthening defences to supplement our dwindling forces.” The warlock paused and let out a heavy sigh from his decaying lungs. “The steady stream of attacks has worn us thin, while the undead in our ranks may be able to work around the clock tirelessly, so it seems, they can too. I don’t think I can confidently say we will be able to fortify this position for much longer.”

 

So it was a similar story amongst all of her outreach posts and she doubted the Alliance ones fared much better. Sylvanas frowned uneasily. The forsaken as a race were dying, more meeting their final demise quicker than she could ever hope to raise them and Azshara was doing a splendid job of speeding up that process. It was always her forsaken that were the first ones to go, the living races cowering behind them, viewing her people as nothing more than cannon fodder, always at the front line, always the first to be sacrificed. She’d foolishly been proud of that fact, that it was her people that made up the tip of the arrow, the first thing to pierce enemy flesh when it came down to the bloody grit of battle. Now she could see it for how it was; yet again it was her people who were suffering the most, only welcomed into the ranks of the Horde because they were a means to an end. No. Not anymore, this was _her_ Horde and her people would survive, even if it cost everything else. Sylvanas turned toward her faithful general and fixed him with her glowing gaze.

 

“What is your name warlock?”

 

If it were possible, the forsaken in question would have flushed in response to his queen’s attentions but he recovered well, “General Miller my lady…uh at least that was the name I remember- can’t recall my given name though.” His haggard face grimaced in thought before brightening a little, “they call me Leftie here at camp though, for uh… obvious reasons.” He gestured to his ruined right leg with a wink.

 

“Have your men continue to fortify the camp, Miller, lay as many traps and tripwires as you can around the perimeter- do what you can to delay another attack with minimal casualties to your men… shortly I will issue a retreat order for you to fall back to the inner garrisons, it seems we will have to give up the distance of our front lines in order to strengthen them.”

 

If the warlock general seemed surprised he didn’t openly show it but Sylvanas knew relief in those milky eyes when she saw it. His loyalty had kept him here but she could tell the death of his comrades had affected him deeply. “As you wish, my lady.” He turned to go but Sylvanas held up a hand to stop him.

 

“That tabard,” she pointed to the ruined rags that covered his chest, her keen eyes making out a symbol from the faded stitching. “You were once part of the Kirin Tor?”

 

“Aye a long time ago, I don’t remember much, mind you, but I trained as a mage in Dalaran.” Sylvanas’s ears pricked in interest and took a step closer.

 

“But you no longer use the arcane?”

 

“No, I do not. When I was freed from his control I couldn’t remember much, I found that I could not feel any connection to the arcane forces that used to come to me so freely, it was… frustrating to say the least.” Sylvanas inwardly winced, knowing all too well the agony she felt being cut off from the Sunwell. “The Council of the Black Harvest noticed my affinity for magicks and took me under their wing, trained me to tap into the fel instead and well… here I am. Sometimes I find I can cast spells I used to know but they are but a bitter mockery of what I could do before… it seemed that the Lich King took what power I had with him when he fell” Leftie sniffed decisively and shrugged one bony shoulder. “It matters little, the power we leached from the twisting nether is more than enough for me to not miss it.” Green flames flashed within his eyes as he gave her a gap toothed grin. Sylvanas nodded once.

 

“Thank you, warlock. That is all.” General Miller bowed deeply and limped away, shoulders hunched against the torrent of wind and rain. Sylvanas watched him go, her mind already delving into a million possibilities. Some of the workers had paused from their duties and cautiously milled over to chat with her guard but she didn’t have it in her to care. She regretted to admit she’d not often stopped enough to simply _talk_ to her men, perhaps if she had, she might already have gleaned a better approach in helping Jaina.

 

Jaina. Sylvanas looked up into the sky, unblinking as the heavy droplets fell down onto her face, tracking through the burn marks under her eyes like fresh tears. She supposed she was in Kul’Tiras now, seeking comfort in her homeland and her family. But would she get it? Sylvanas wondered if her mother would reach out to her or would she flinch away from her cold skin and glowing eyes, would she recognize the undead echo in her voice as her Jaina’s or just the speech of an unwelcome spirit, taking the form of her daughter.

 

They would never truly receive her. Sylvanas knew all to well the initial horror and disgust in her dear Vereesa’s eyes. The way Alleria had the nerve to declare _her_ a monster.

 

_Nobody will know her like I do, accept her like I do. She will come back to me and I will embrace her with open arms, the finest arrow in my quiver._

Sylvanas closed her eyes at the selfish declarations that buzzed about her head like flies around carrion.

 

_She will never forgive me. I broke my promise… I was so alone…_

“Enough!” Sylvanas voice shattered the cruel whispers as she turned and grabbed the reigns of the large skeletal charger and lithely vaulted into the saddle. “We waste time standing here with idle talk when we should be on our way to the next encampment. We ride out, now!”

 

The shadows at the fringes of the forest began to stir as one by one her dark rangers made themselves known, while her forsaken guard snapped to attention, breaking from their conversations and grappling at their steeds in a frantic hurry. They mounted up and Sylvanas dug her heels into the bony sides of her horse, kicking up mud as the undead creature pranced, eager to race away. One task complete, hundreds more to go.

 

* * *

 

 

 “Through a joint decision made by The Warchief and the High King of Stormwind, both Horde and Alliance forces have opted to recede their front lines, falling back to a tighter perimeter around major cities in order to strengthen both numbers per camp and supply lines.”

 

“So in other words they are retreating.”

 

“They? You seem to forget, you are part of this treaty, and _we_ are retreating. Your troops are out there too, Lord Admiral, this is not a decision made lightly.” Master Mathias Shaw was drenched; his usually tan leathers dark with moisture and his leaking boots were beginning to leave a small puddle on her floor. He’d arrived in a hurry to bring her this news.

 

Katherine stood up, heels tapping menacingly along the stone tiles as she stepped closer to peer down at him, stopping at the chair next to the table and pulling out as if to sit. “Forgive me for being less than enthusiastic that we are still taking orders from that heartless witch.”

 

“Until the greater threat is over, it is a necessary evil we must deal with.”

 

“She took my daughter from me! I just got her back and she…she…” Katharine found she couldn’t speak, the rage and grief threatening to overwhelm her as she clasped the back of the chair until her knuckles went white.

 

“Jaina is coming back.” Mathias almost went to touch her shoulder in comfort but thought better and brought his hand back down to his side, the tips of his fingers touching the hilt of his dagger out of reflex. “I know however bad this situation is, does that not make you feel at least something?”

 

Katherine stared up at the portrait of Daelyn Proudmoore that hung over the stone hearth. The painting captured that roguish smile of his beautifully, the lines around his eyes crinkled from decades of laughter. It was such a far cry from the vengeful man he’d been in his last years of life, the moment the orcs had killed Derek, the loving man he once was had died along with their eldest son.

 

“When a Kul’Tiran dies their body is placed in a burning boat and cast out to sea. They return home, to the Tidemother, at peace amongst the waves.” Katherine’s eyes were distant. “Once again, it seems, my family is denied that right.” She smiled sadly before looking up at the spymaster, “but I would be a fool to not anticipate the thought holding my daughter in my arms again.”

 

Mathias did touch her this time, his fingers gently brushing against her elbow and Katherine allowed him a genuine smile this time, one that touched her eyes. It was the first time he noticed just how beautiful she was.

 

“You need not worry Spymaster, the treaty is still safe on my end, but if we make it through this and the Horde and Alliance go back to warring with each other and they _will_ I assure you _…_ I shall be the first to draw my sword on that traitorous banshee.”

 


	5. War Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long- total hardrive failure and some failed recoveries delayed this a while but I've managed to salvage a fair bit so the story shall continue onwards! If anything it gives me a chance to write it better a second time round :) 
> 
> Hope yall like a bit of action scenage ahhh here we go-

_1 month ago:_

 

She hadn’t known why she’d done it.

 

Perhaps it had been the colored blinking lights-drawing her like a moth to a flame, the ingenuity of the contraption piquing her academic curiosity or the fact that Gallywix was hurling the crudest of insults at one of the Gnome engineers furiously trying to tighten a rattling valve- but Jaina had approached the argumentative pair, reprimanding them to ‘ _play nice’-_

\- and making the mistake of slapping the hull of the mech suit as she sent him on his way, hissing as the scalding hot metal came into contact with her palm.

 

Fucking goblin tech.

 

Playing it cool, she stuck around long enough not to draw suspicion of her blunder but the pain emanating from her hand soon drove her crazy enough to make a hurried exit- leaving the engineers to their tenuous teamwork. She teleported into the hold, grimacing as she encased the burnt flesh in ice and cradled her injured hand to her chest- hoping that there was at least one healing potion lying around that she could use on the sly- not in the mood to explain such a foolish blunder to a healer or worst of all _the Warchief._

 

Unfortunately the very person she was trying to avoid seemed to pick the worst time to turn up.

 

“Jaina?” Sylvanas clasped her hands behind her back, calmly observing the small hurricane that was her wife as she pulled out draws and swept papers off the desk in a frantic search for… whatever it was she was looking for. Sylvanas voiced her confusion; “what _are_ you looking for that has you careering through my chambers like a spooked hawkstrider?”

 

“ _Our_ chambers.” Jaina snapped, pushing a chest aside and sighing in defeat.

 

“Yes, our chambers. You haven’t answered my question.”

 

“It’s nothing important.” Jaina rocked on her feet slightly; seemingly unsure what to do with herself and Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, gaze flitting to the arm she was favoring.

 

“You’re injured.”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

Sylvanas stepped closer, jaw clenched.

 

“Who. Did. This.”

 

“I did.” Jaina blushed and slowly thawed the ice away from her palm, wincing as the sensation and heat slowly returned to the blistered skin. “It seems, like some wayward child, I am unable to refrain myself from touching something dangerous. Remind me next time not to handle any goblin tech without a thick pair of gauntlets.”

 

That seemed to placate the elf who relaxed her shoulders and smiled in fond exasperation before a flicker of concern crossed her features.

 

“I’ll fetch a healer.”

 

“No, no- please no healers, it’s embarrassing enough as it is.”

 

“Sit on the bed then. I’ll be right back.”

 

“Sylvanas it’s fine I- dammit!” She was already out the door.

 

Jaina perched awkwardly on the end of the bed briefly considering if it was worth just re-icing the damn thing and teleporting away, but decided against it- it would only prolong the inevitable and her wife seemed to be in a sympathetic enough mood that there had been no teasing smirks or cruel chuckles. If anything, Jaina hadn’t seen one of those directed at her in a while- she was still subject to plenty of that iconic sass that seemed to punctuate every other sentence- though she knew Sylvanas at this point probably couldn't help it. However, like anyone with enough exposure, she’d become an expert at deflecting the barbs, sometimes even mastering it herself much to Anduin’s horror.

 

It didn’t take long for Sylvanas to return, carrying what looked like a roll of clean bandages and a bottle of strong alcoholic smelling substance. With two long strides she crossed the room and knelt gracefully in front of the mage, long delicate fingers outstretched in invitation.

 

“Give me your hand.”

 

Jaina stared at her impassively before slowly uncurling her arm and gingerly allowing those cool fingers to gently claps her wrist and pull it closer for inspection.

 

Sylvanas made a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat and with the lightest of touches traced the reddened skin that surrounded the weeping mess of burnt flesh and blisters.

 

“I will need to clean this, hold still.”

 

Jaina stiffened and hissed as her wife poured the strong smelling liquid from the bottle and began to dab at the burn with gentle swipes of a dampened cloth.

 

“Almost done” the Warchief chided and stroked a free thumb soothingly over the undamaged skin of her wrist as she continued to disinfect the wound. Jaina forced herself to relax and found some distraction in watching her wife work. Sylvanas’s eyes were so focused and her touches so meticulous and gentle it made the mage’s head spin in its intensity. For a brief moment Jaina was teleported to the forests of Quel’Thalas, smelling of wood-smoke and pine and experiencing the expert care of a Ranger General as she dressed a field wound. Sylvanas hummed in concentration, carefully placing the gauze and winding the bandage snugly over it in a neat crisscross of patterns before tying it off at the end. 

 

“There,” cool lips kissed her knuckles, “all better now.”

 

Jaina felt a lump form in her throat. The kindness, the tenderness- sometimes it was a little too much, baffling her to this day how it could endure such torment, outlast countless moments of pain, rejection and anguish and continue to survive.

 

Not just survive but _thrive._

Like the sprouting of fresh green shoots in the aftermath of a forest fire.

 

Blue eyes met burning crimson and Jaina slowly pulled back her bandaged hand, inspecting the professional work before lifting it to cup that beautiful, stoic face and tracing a thumb over the sharp ridge of a cheekbone.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Sylvanas leaned into the touch, eyes closing at the sensation of warm fingers and the rough graze of the bandage against her jaw- even through the thick material she could feel the heat of the wound.

 

“Sometimes I forget how fragile you are.”

 

Jaina scoffed. “It’s only a burn, I’ve had worse.”

 

“I know.”

 

Silence stretched between the two of them as Jaina continued to stroke her thumb back and forth. Sylvanas lifted her hand, fingers laying over the backs of Jaina’s and stilling her movements.

 

“Jaina…”

 

“Hm?”

 

Sylvanas searched her face for a long time as though to ask something before her expression darkened and she cast her gaze to the floor- eyes ancient in their sadness.

 

“I… I’ll tell you another time.”

* * *

  

_Present:_

 

_Proudmoore Keep, Kul'Tiras_

 

Rain drenched stone, salt bleached wood, deep tracks in the sand and mud- the movement of dirt and earth and rock under the tramp of heavy feet.

 

_Alliance, forward!_

Proud boats with plated bows of steel. Proudmoore- a name that once brought hope. Lord Admiral. Daughter of the Sea.

 

Whispers, distrust, danger, death. Undeath.

 

They see her now; they see _through_ her- her strings.

 

Heavy boots, tall stone steps, wind and rain and sleet. Still they stare. Broad shoulders and bared teeth. Fog muted whispers, a lonely cry of a child.

 

Pride, betrayal, hope, suspicion.

 

_You’re no daughter of mine._

Cast aside and trampled in the mud, a dirty scrap of bandage- stained with ancient blood.

 

* * *

 

_Bladefist Bay, Durotar_

 

 There’s smoke on the horizon- thick acrid clouds that reek of gunpowder and burnt flesh- at the catalyst- three boats, stationary in the water. Blackened wood and splintered masts, sails dragging in the water- static targets above the angry stirring of waters as naga swarm from all directions.

 

The Warchief looks on, hears the wails of despair and clash of trident against steel. Ears twitch at the crack of pistols, loud- too loud, the sound like that of metal striking stone.

 

The goblin had been right, there was Azerite aboard those ships.

 

Fingers tighten around her bow, the leather of her gloves creak in protest.

 

A guttural shout of victory- the naga general stood, blood dripping from the severed head he held up proudly, one muscular arm, resplendent in shimmering emerald scales coiled back and he threw it in a graceful arc to be claimed by the waves below. More cheers, more cries of horror- the water below stirred in further frenzy as the blood turned the frothing waves red. The whole time Sylvanas did not take her eyes off him.

 

_A lapse in concentration is all it takes._

She’d been _right next_ to her, a shining beacon of power amongst the overwhelming numbers that swarmed their way up from the docks. The buzz of arcane emanating from her lover almost intoxicating in its proximity- it snapped at her nerves and alighted her senses, thrumming through her like a heartbeat and she reveled in it, letting lose arrows with such terrifying efficiency and dexterity that nothing had even got close. The two of them were unstoppable like this- a display of human resilience and elven grace, complimenting each other so well on the battlefield that many of the naga, if they paused long enough to wonder, suspected they were but two manifestations of the same deadly entity- before it tore them apart with shards of frost and arrows. Lethal. Relentless.

 

Then Vereesa had cried out.

 

A brute- all grotesque purple muscle and garish orange fins, dripping its foul blood and water over the struggling form of her sister as she’d tried to crawl away. Sylvanas heard the barely contained sobs of terror as though she were trying and failing to accept her inevitable fate of being crushed by its hideous, malformed fist. She’d promised Jaina to keep anything off her while she’d directed her assault on the naga battlemaiden that had been carving her way through the Alliance ranks with ease. She’d promised that her wife would be protected.

 

But Vereesa had screamed and in a split second she had turned away to let loose an arrow into its sickly yellow eye. The beast howled and thrashed away, taking several of the naga with it.

 

_Jaina had trusted her._

 

Mana near exhausted, she’d thrown the last of it, all her focus, into that pinpointed assault; shredding scales, fins, claws and teeth and the battlemaiden shrieked and writhed on the ground- naga around her faltering as their leader fell, gargling partially frozen blood from her mouth and gills. Her wife hadn’t even wasted energy on a barrier.

 

_Because she’d trusted her._

 

Vereesa had looked at her with such gratitude and tenderness in her eyes that Sylvanas felt her dead heart stir and her body lighten.

 

_I’m here for you Little Moon._

Then that gaze turned to horror, her mouth open in a shriek of terror. Sylvanas frowned, turned too late to see but heard-

 

-The wet crunch of trident sliding through bone and flesh; an all too familiar sound, but the howl of pain that accompanied it…

 

_No, no, please no._

She’d broken a lot of promises that day.

 

“Ey boss…I mean Warchief, we got ‘em set up- ready when you are.”

 

Sylvanas reluctantly broke her gaze free of the gloating naga general and turned her attentions to the goblin, clad in some crudely thrown together scuba gear and what the Warchief guessed to be a detonator in his grease stained hands. She nodded to him, ignoring the manic grin he shot her as his thumb brushed at the control with a promise.

 

Perfect, now she could finally _do_ something.

* * *

 

  _Proudmoore Keep, Kul'Tiras_

 

The heavy doors to her room slammed and Jaina leant against them, gulping lungfuls of air as she roughly tangled fingers in her hair and gripped it to the point of hurting. She didn’t know why she was hyperventilating, there was nothing calming about the rough, shaky expel of air through her chapped lips, without the relief tied into each draw of oxygen that was granted with a living form, it was a useless function. Still, it was what her body remembered, along with the tension in her muscles and the way it curled in on itself as though seeking protection from an unseen threat. She tugged harder at her hair, grounding herself with the sharp sensation of pain in her scalp- pain was good, that she still felt in all its clarity.

 

She focused on each sensation, the brass handle of the door digging into her shoulder blades, the ache in the joints of her fingers as she slowly untangled them, the stiffness of muscle as bit by bit, she released their strain. She was home, she was safe, and nobody was going to hurt her.

 

_But are you safe? Even now the elite guard marches the halls with orders to put you down like a dog in the street at any false move._

Her darkened inner thoughts snapped at her consciousness, tearing shreds of sanity away like vultures at a carcass.

 

_It wouldn’t even be that hard, you’re weak without your magic- you’ve grown reliant on it, soft; you’ve forgotten what it is to be vulnerable._

No, they wouldn’t. Her mother...

 

_Your mother who flinched the moment her skin came into contact with yours._

No. Her mother had held her in her arms, had wept with joy.

 

_And sorrow-_

 

Had ordered the gawking masses away, guided her to her room, gently bid her goodnight in a soft voice with a promise that she would be kept safe-

 

_-And secured. You’re as much a prisoner here as you are protected. They thought you couldn’t hear them when they discussed your fate to remain within these walls- you’re no more free than the sorry wretches thrown in Tol Dagor._

“Stop, please stop.” Jaina begged and drew her knees to her chest, leaning her forehead against them. She was so tired but without the physical exhaustion how could she hope to quiet the cruel taunting in her mind long enough to snatch even the briefest moments of respite.

 

Was this how Sylvanas felt? Jaina could count on one hand the times she’d caught the Banshee actively unconscious- nearly all of them had occurred in the past six months, following on from… certain activities.

 

Typical really, that someone who required no sleep still found within them to pass out straight after lovemaking.

 

She almost laughed at that fact, very nearly did, but the bitterness in her chest as her thoughts returned to her wife quickly soured the small uplift in her mood and she reverted to her earlier brooding behaviour. At least now the mounting panic was replaced with anger and that was something she found far more manageable.

 

The rage she now felt was far better than acknowledging the fresh and raw pain from the cracks in her motionless, broken heart.

* * *

 

_Bladefist Bay, Durotar_

 

The naga general cackled as he pushed the lifeless remains of what had been the boson into the churning sea, the gargled snarl of several murlocs called in response, as they hungrily tore at the flesh with teeth as sinister and sharp as those on an anglerfish. The air reeked of charred flesh and wood as well as the biting scent of what the landwalkers named ‘Azerite.’ He slithered over to the cargo that had yet to be tipped beneath the waves and pried back the airtight lid to reveal the reason these pathetic creatures had been squabbling.

 

“Pretty rocks indeed,” he growled, clasping a glowing gold and blue shard between two long claws, the wet membrane of his inner eyelids blinked and his needle-like pupils narrowed in scrutiny.

 

“We will take this to our Queen and she will reward us well!”

 

Even beneath the waves his voice bellowed loud and clear and many of the naga resurfaced to crow in response and he thumped his chest and roared in victory.

 

“The landwalkers still cower on their broken ships- finish them all!”

 

More shrieks, more whimpers of terror. The general grinned in triumph, scales shimmering under the midday sun as he unfurled the colorful ridges of his fins in a display of dominance and power. If only his Queen could look upon him now- oh but he would bring her back these riches, kill thousands more in her name if only for the smallest glimmer of recognition. He hefted the box of azerite effortlessly under one arm and dove off the side of the ship-

 

-as soon as he hit the water, the ocean exploded around him.

 

Shrapnel tore at his flesh, severing the tentacles at the side of his face and he howled in pain and indignation- dropping the box and whirling around with fury in his eyes.

 

The cowards had hidden explosives under the boats!

 

“Fall back! Away from the shipsss” he snarled, blood misting around him as he turned and swam with a powerful stroke of his tail.

 

More explosions, he watched as one priestess and several of his warriors were instantly turned into chum.

 

The humans couldn’t have done this surely- how would they have known to lay such a trap within the cove- no, these mines had not been laid by the same crews he’d been pursuing.

 

Keen eyes, adapted to the chaotic swirl of the waters caught the shimmering glimpse of something small move amongst the reef below.

 

Goblins. Horde.

 

“The Horde are here!” he bellowed in outrage. “Those filthy dirt dwellers mean to steal our plunder- take them out, without mercy _!”_

 

He was _furious._ How dare they ruin his moment of triumph- he would become a laughing stock, the disappointment in his Queen’s eyes would be too much to bear. He had to do something.

 

“Bring the cargo down to the sea floor! They are at a disadvantage without their precious air.”

 

More of his warriors jumped into the waves, dropping caskets and boxes that began to steadily sink, into the depths below. In response more explosions took them out- the Azerite still clasped in their arms igniting, causing his sensitive eardrums to shatter at the loud explosive crack followed by a blue shockwave that boiled the exposed flesh of his wounds. The general forgoed his trident in favor of snatching a crossbow from the desecrated corpse of one of his marksmen and began to fire at the shimmering bodies below, they moved slow, encumbered by their breathing gear and he grinned as he shot a bolt clean through the mask of one, watching it jerk about, panicking as the suit filled with water.

 

Something moved to his left- it reeked of death and wrongness. Glowing red eyes flashed amongst a tangle of shadow.

 

He snarled and fired at it blindly, the bolts passing through harmlessly as the smoky darkness stalked closer.

 

“Stay back, shadow witch!” He hissed, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

 

“Attacking unarmed refugee ships- is this what the mighty followers of Azshara have succumbed to- how disappointing.” The voice did not come from the creature of darkness but echoed around his skull as though it were projecting its very thoughts into his mind.

 

“You will die for this!” He released another bolt and the shadows materialized to form an arm that caught it with ease, swimming closer to bring the pointed tip under his broad chin. He tried shove it back but another arm grabbed at him, cold tendrils pierced through his flesh, locking him in place and all he could do was mutely stare up at the shadows that leached away to form a tear-stained face. It was then that he realized whom exactly he was at the mercy of.

 

“Such bravado, such loyalty until the very end but part of me wonders…” the tip of the arrow pierced past scales and skin until more blood misted in the water. “How much of that loyalty is _yours._ ”

 

“I would die for my Queen!” he snarled. The creature of death and shadow chuckled and the sound reverberated through his skull.

 

“I believe you shall.” Muscles flexed and the arrow pierced upwards through jaw and tongue and brain. The naga general thought no more.

 

Sylvanas pushed the hulking corpse of the wretched beast off of her, gasping out a flurry of bubbles as her body returned to its more corporeal form- white-hot pain wracking at every nerve as it protested to the sudden onslaught of sensation. The sea was ice cold around her limbs, salt stung at her eyes and she could taste the foul naga blood as tainted brine flowed into her mouth and nostrils. A few powerful strokes and her head broke the surface, spluttering in a fight to clear her airways.

 

“My Queen! Champions, keep her spotted and direct me to her location!”

 

Of course Nathanos was here, it was like he had a homing beacon that activated whenever she was in trouble- she would have rolled her eyes had she not been so intent on staying afloat as the weight of her armor and heavy cloak began to make things difficult. Arms grasped at her and she reluctantly let herself be hauled gracelessly on board the longboat. She continued to cough up liquid, grimacing not from lack of air but from the unpleasant sensation of fluid in her lungs.

 

“Remind me never do that underwater again,” her voice sounded raspy and weak. Nathanos helpfully beat her back and she spat more water on the boards below her feet.

 

“I assume the general is dead?”

 

“Of course or I wouldn’t be up here if he wasn’t” she snapped in return, speech becoming stronger as her lungs and throat began to clear. Nathanos, used to her outbursts, said nothing and dug through the storage at the front of the boat. Sylvanas gratefully accepted the bow and quiver he handed to her and relaxed slightly at the comforting weight of _Deathwhisper_ in her grasp.

 

“The rest of the forces seem to be retreating, and losses to our own minimal. As we speak the goblins are securing the Azerite both on deck and the caskets that were sunk beneath the waves. I have ordered a druid to tail the retreating forces to ensure they don’t double back but it seems unlikely, this was a raiding party, not an army.”

 

Ah yes. Azerite- that had been why they’d attacked. Sylvanas wouldn’t admit it but Azerite had been the last thing on her mind when she’d mercilessly gutted each and every one of those hideous beasts. She _hated_ naga with a blind prejudice that seemed to settle within her very bones- given the time and resources she would quite happily hunt those trident wielding brutes to mass extinction. For now however, she had more pressing matters to attend.

 

“Thank you, now I believe there are survivors aboard those ships?”

 

“Yes and many who are _freshly fallen_.” Nathanos didn’t even look at her as he stressed the word; the statement so matter of fact that it wasn’t even a question. With a curt nod from his Warchief, he began to steadily row toward the smoking husks of the ships. 

* * *

 

_Proudmoore Keep, Kul'Tiras_

 

“Fuck!” Jaina hissed as one foot slipped on the wet tiles, threatening to send her careening over the edge. She leant back against the wall and took a few deep breaths muttering some more colorful words under her breath.

 

How could she possibly hope to calm herself when something as simple as the comforting effects of a deep breath now eluded her.

 

She tried again, lowering herself shakily onto the ledge and testing a more stable tile with her foot- barely trusting it to hold, she slowly began to lean her weight on it. She tried and failed to not imagine what would happen if she were to fall-would her body break, or would she still be alive as every bone shattered. Maybe the force of the impact would be enough to snuff her out once and for all- would they call for Sylvanas or just leave her be to succumb to her injuries and conclude the death that should have happened days ago. Her fingers gripped tighter to the ledge in response to the sudden urge to leap.

 

Not many people knew that she had been deathly afraid of heights her whole life.

 

Vertigo settled deep within her chest, claws squeezing at her organs and she fought the urge to puke- her mind briefly distracted as she wondered if she could even still _do_ that.

 

There was no blink this time, no teleportation, no slowfall, no barriers… there was nothing between her and the cold empty cobbles below but the tenacious grip of her fingers and the careful placement of her feet on the precarious tiles.

 

_Weak, vulnerable, a liability for both Alliance and Horde._

No, she could fix this. She _had_ to, but how could she if they wouldn’t let her _leave._

 

There was no way in hell she would ask Sylvanas for help either- this was something she’d have to figure out alone, but nothing good would come of it if she were to fall now. She needed to focus.

 

The next ledge wasn’t far below; it would require a leap in order to reach it- there would be a brief and terrifying moment where she’d be suspended in mid air- unable to tell if she’d made it or not. Perhaps a bad idea-

 

-no, it wasn’t far; she could easily make the leap.

 

She really wished her staff slung across her back wasn’t so heavy and she touched the straps across chest her chest, making sure they were still tight.

 

Shifting a bit, she tested the muscles in her legs and narrowed her eyes to make out the slabs of stone below.

 

Just one tiny jump- it was easy. Her fingers dug further into the windowsill in protest as her body baulked at the though.

 

But if she fucked up…

 

A small part of her was glad nobody was here to see her balanced precariously on the roof while giving herself an internal pep talk.

 

Breathe. Focus.

 

Jump.

 

A moment of rushing air, a lurching drop in her stomach.

 

Her boots, then her knees hit the tiles below. The momentum further lurched her forward and her hands slapped against the cool slabs of stone.

 

She’d made it. Fuck.

 

Relief flooded through her, palms trembling uncontrollably.

 

She shakily tried to stand and slipped, one hand catching the sharp edge of a tile in reflex to grab something. Pain shot through her fingers and she hissed, bringing them to her mouth to clear the blood…

 

She paused and looked down.

 

“Oh that’s just wrong,” she murmured in disgust.

 

Black ichor oozed from the fingertips to her knuckles and she stared at in disbelief- hardly believing that the substance was coming from her own body. She was familiar enough with the stuff- she’d cleaned enough of Sylvanas’s cuts and grazes to understand what now flowed sluggishly within her veins.

 

The blood of the forsaken, the blood of her people- Sylvanas’s people.

 

Jaina fought back a frustrated growl and wiped it on her breeches. She didn’t want to have to think about the implications of who she was and where she belonged right now.

 

Not when she needed to tackle the rest of her on-a-whim journey…

 

She was aware that the guard still had regular patrols around the castle well within the depths of night; they would be on foot- the horses secure in their stables to sleep. All she had to do was inch her way along this small walkway, vault the railings and somehow make her way past the canal and to the stables- once she was on the back of a horse, while it would alert every guard in the vicinity, she’d be able to make a quick getaway before they could rally a charger after her.

 

If they sent gryphons, ditch the horse off the side of the road and make off into the forest- if they alerted the hunters at Tiragarde Sound, make a break for the mountains.

 

Easy right?

 

Gods this was madness- what was she even thinking sneaking out her window like a thief in the night- they were suspicious of her enough as it was and her actions would only further confirm it, but she knew the common saying; ‘ _If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain how he is.’_ And if they were going to treat her like a criminal- well… they hadn’t given her much of a choice.

 

Better that than trapped in her own castle and twiddling her thumbs while people bickered and argued over her head about what to do with her as though she were some misbehaving child.

 

The patrols she was familiar with, her body still shook with the exhilaration of the leap and the scent of the sea was sharp in her nostrils- the spring tide was high; she could hear and feel the power of the breakers crashing against the cliffs- almost as though the very waves were calling to her. She almost smiled as she pulled the hood over her head and dropped to crouch, scanning the next moves of her stealth mission- to hell with politics and waiting around, she was ready to do what needed to be done.

 

What was it that her wife always said? Ah yes.

 

_No time for games._


	6. Sparring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, it's been a long time. I lost several thousand words of this story when my laptop died so it was a sore subject for a while to return to this. Still I feel like I have to finish what I started and it helps that I feel a bit more positive about re-writing it anyway. 
> 
> Sorry for leaving you guys hanging.

_A few months ago: Ogrimmar_

Sylvanas was selfish and she would be the first to admit that. When she wanted something she took it, regardless of the souls she’d have to trample over in her conquest. However, that selfishness had never been limited to just _her._ It started with her sisters, then it became her squad and then in her final moments of living it had been the entire population of Quel’Thalas. She was selfish in that when the first sorry human refugees had come trickling in, seeking shelter from a creeping threat so horrific they’d sank to their knees and openly begged for elven aid, she’d turned them away from the borders. She was selfish when Silvermoon declared marshal law and put her in charge that she’d felt a sense of _pride_ despite the dire circumstance. She’d been selfish in that when she’d shot her final arrow, quiver empty, body exhausted and felt the shadow of the Death Knight fall upon her, she’d felt only relief. Relief that she’d done all she could, had protected her people up until her dying breath and regretted very little. She had felt the warmth of _Belore_ on her face, smelled the sun-soaked grass as it swayed in the gentle, warm breeze and tasted the sweetness of the air, blessedly devoid of the stench of battle and festering corpses. She had been so ready for the peace of death, for the eternal sun and the thrill of the chase in Belore’s hunting fields. She’d closed her eyes and welcomed it.

 

And then there had been pain. Agony, the torment of vile necromantic fingers tearing her soul from her body, making her feel violated and dirty. She’d watched her body slump to the ground, lifeless, burning tracks still sizzling on ashen cheeks where she’d cried tears of horror and anguish. She’d felt that horrible icy grip tighten around her soul and the pain, the torment, the injustice of it all wrenched from her chest and bubbled in her throat and she screamed. Screamed as her ethereal fingers, now sharp and wicked like talons, had dug into the flesh of her comrades. Shrieked as she was used as a weapon against her own people. Silvermoon burned and with it, the last of her sanity.

 

Then there had been the control. The barbed chains that wrapped around her spirit that would never loosen or relent no matter how hard she struggled. Her body gone, she had no physical way of soothing herself. As a young ranger she’d been taught methods to keep her sanity if she was ever captured or tortured but it had involved grounding oneself with sounds and scents and sights. Her spirit lacked such senses, only granted to her when they were needed in combat. They became her enemy, for when she was allowed to touch, it was only to feel the hot rivets of blood that ran down her arms as she shakily pulled claws away from the chest they’d been embedded in. When she was allowed to hear, it was only the wails of fear and howls of suffering as she tore through villages and slaughtered families cowering in their homes. It was her thoughts however, that were the worst. The endless taunting, the cruel laughter of the Lich King echoing in her tortured mind and the increasing inability to discern which thoughts were hers and which were his. Sometimes he would croon at her with false sympathies in that raspy hideous voice, would dangle her lifeless body in front of her like a peace of meat in front of a starving hound, teasing her to re-possess it, only to snatch it away with howls of mocking laughter. Her selfishness arose once more, it was so easy to give in, to forget who she was and just mindlessly _hate_. She reached a stage where thoughts no longer formed words but consisted only of feelings, of pain and fear and mind numbing rage. Nothing more than the cognizance of an abused animal.

 

Until she’d felt that control begin to weaken. He liked to torment _her_ in particular when he was frustrated or angry and the first signs thing were not going well for him were the increased consistency in which she was forcefully summoned to his throne room. While she dreaded each and every one of them, she started to see a pattern. She watched as he would attempt to distress her with increasing desperation until one day he snapped, snarling insults and throwing shields and swords in her direction. He pushed over racks of armor in a childish tantrum that reminded her that the formidable Lich King was barely a man. Arthus was no more than a spoilt little prince who’d been given too much power and wasn’t getting his way. Fear, for once, was not the dominant emotion that she felt in his presence, but overwhelming disgust.

 

“Do something, you bitch!” He’d howled. “Get on your knees and grovel, beg my forgiveness for letting your wretched form sully my throne room.”

 

Sylvanas sensed it, the icy grip tightening, the power of the Lich King commanding her to do just that but…she resisted. Oh. She’d never been able to do that before. So she’d remained, as she was, proud and upright. Despite her desolate spirit and the agony it caused to resist, she merely stayed still, silently watching him with smoking red eyes. The man-child Arthas looked at her and for the briefest of moments she’d witnessed uncertainty flicker across his face, the tiniest spark of fear in that cold steel gaze.

 

“Whatever,” he’d spat, regaining his composure quickly, but not quick enough for Sylvanas to latch onto it like a nightsaber at the throat of its prey. “Just get out of my sight.”

 

This time Sylvanas did obey, but only because she wanted to.

 

There had been the waiting. The plotting, the gathering of likeminded souls who, had also started to regain their freedom. Taking back her body nearly broke her, a pathetic hope she thought long dead still glimmered and she naively expected that repossessing what was once hers would somehow make it all okay. It took her weeks to simply stay within in her corpse, months to re-learn how to walk and write and speak. This body no longer was _her_ , it was merely a puppet, an interface for her banshee spirit to interact. Still, she held onto it tightly for it was the only thing she now owned, the only thing she could control. Besides, what use would she be if she had no body in order to shove a knife through the Lich King’s unbeating heart.

 

It became her purpose, her only goal on this cursed world and it was to end him, to make him suffer as she had. She cared little for anything or anyone else, the people she worked with merely a means to an end and she gladly embraced that. She’d always been selfish after all.

 

So when her kill was denied and instead of Arthas, the Lich King sat as Bolvar Foredragon, skin broken and burning and cold blue flames now flared orange, she lost it. She screamed, and spat and tore clawed, gauntleted fingers into the thick ice that incased him, frozen shards snapped away but the prison held firm and those burning eyes still stared at her from under that horrible twisted helm. The wrong eyes. She gave up and sobbed, beating fists against the ice until her knuckles were torn and oozing thick black ichor. She’d slumped to the ground, smearing more of it against the frozen throne and cursed his name, cursed that her only purpose was denied, cursed her existence and events beyond her control.

 

Control. She did have some didn’t she? She didn’t have to endure this anymore, and her suffering was hers alone and hers to end. Slow and measured footsteps took her to the edge of Icecrown Citadel and far below she had gazed upon dark, menacing spikes reaching out to her with the promise to impale. Nothing, not even she, could survive that fall. The metal of her sabaton scraped against the icy edge of the platform. Winged beings looked on, twisted shadowy forms of the Valkyr she’d once heard glorious tales about as a young elf, a thousand lifetimes ago. They had begged her to stay, showed her visions of what would happen to her people if she were to fall. Showed the despondent shuffling of corpses, rudderless and adrift, and even those that in their torment and misery threw themselves onto raging bonfires, whimpering in agony as their rotting flesh went up in flames. She had laughed coldly, good for them. They were not her people and they too had chosen, like her, to end their miserable existence. This choice was hers and she chose peace. She owed them nothing.

 

Of course, Sylvanas internally sighed, as she stretched out, focusing on the way soft sheets slipped from her naked body. That choice had been denied to her as well, the alternative so horrific it filled her with a blind panic if she were to dwell on it for too long. Her new purpose became finding a way to escape that torment for nobody, absolutely nobody, deserved that fate.

 

Not even Arthas.

 

Now _that_ had taken a long time to admit. It wasn’t that she’d turned sympathetic, oh no. The vile boy deserved all the suffering he could get, but an eternity in the void… no. People might even accuse her of going soft if they were to hear her utter such things aloud but they would be wildly incorrect. They would never understand, not unless they’d _been_ there. Nobody could understand that. When Nathanos had declared he would gladly go with her, suffer the same fate so long as he was by her side, she’d wanted to slap him, scream in his face and dig her claws into his neck until he begged for mercy. He was a fool for wishing such a fate on himself, a blind and naïve idiot. But what good would that do, without taking him there herself, there was no way she could ever make him or anyone else see.

 

Though maybe part of it _was_ her going soft. She had been hanging around with some terrible influences lately. She shifted onto her side and glanced over at said terrible influence who was softly snoring, silky pale strands of hair sticking up in all directions and an arm haphazardly thrown across their face. Sylvanas couldn’t help the fond smile that graced her lips, an expression very few had ever witnessed, even when she’d been alive. Jaina was one of those very few people and the _only_ person to know what it felt like to have The Banshee Queen nuzzle at the delicate skin of her neck and press cold lips lovingly against the underside of her jaw. The human moaned slightly in response but continued to settle down and resume her soft snores. Sylvanas huffed a fond yet exasperated sigh. Oh to be able to properly sleep again, but, and she smirked proudly, she supposed her love needed it considering how much she’d worn her out last night. The elf then caught herself and openly snorted. _Her love_ , even now it felt such a foreign concept that her very thoughts rejected it. It wasn’t that Sylvanas hadn’t taken partners in the past and even in undeath she’d been no stranger to the intimate touch, occasionally indulging her needs with devoted subjects. But a relationship, this was entirely new concept to Sylvanas both in life and un-life. Then again Jaina wasn’t something she particularly wanted to share, so here she was, fully committed and with very little regret about the situation. She was digressing, she hadn’t been pondering her wretched life for no reason, these troubled thoughts of hers had come to her in response to a request Jaina had asked of her last night.

 

“Sylvanas? Can I ask you something?” She’d began, still breathless and sweating from their third round of lovemaking that night. She seemed like she was struggling to gather her thoughts and it was almost endearing that such a sharp and intellectual mind could stutter when a hand was moving between her legs. “Sylvanas please…” she gasped even as her hips canted in response to fingers gently crooking against over stimulated folds. The elf, feeling merciful stilled her movements but kept the contact of her fingertips pressed against her heat causing the human to whine slightly and attempt to shift her hips away.

 

“Go on,” she husked making sure to breath against Jaina’s ear and she felt victorious when the human shuddered in response.

 

“I would…” Jaina swallowed still distracted by the light pressure of fingers against her clit. “I would like to ask you to do something for me sometime.”

 

“Hm?” Sylvanas nuzzled at soft skin before brushing her tongue over a vein in the human’s neck and pressing her lips against it.

 

“I…” Sylvanas bit down gently, exhaling cool air against the damp patch of skin. “ _Belore,_ Sylvanas stop distracting me!” Jaina snapped and the elf openly laughed, humored both by the mighty mind of an Archmage being vanquished by a such a simple action and the fact that she’d just uttered a very familiar curse.

 

“Did you just use _Belore’s_ name in vain?” Sylvanas acted affronted, teasingly nipping at an ear, still unable to get over her fascination at how small they were.

 

“Come now, you use it all the time.” Jaina shot back and the undead elf grinned.

 

“Oh I know, just glad to realize I’m rubbing off on you.” Sylvanas bucked her hips, pushing against the fingers still pressed against Jaina to further actuate her point.

 

The human groaned, both at the cliché and the sensation. She weakly pushed against her chest, careful not to catch her fingers against the ragged scar that Frostmourne had left in its wake. Sylvanas still reacted badly to her touching that part of her, even if accidental, which the mage now took great effort in avoiding, much to the elf’s eternal gratitude. It wasn’t that Sylvanas didn’t trust Jaina it was just… the wound still throbbed, an underlying ache that was always on the fringes of her mind and having the contrast of such welcome and tender touches against such a horrific reminder of her trauma, it sometimes sparked dark thoughts. Thoughts that she didn’t deserve this, thoughts that she wasn’t allowed happiness and well, it was best to avoid that disturbing frame of mind if she could. Jaina was just so damn perceptive and respectful, encouraging but never pushy and it was these reasons that let Sylvanas even consider her following request.

 

“I need to learn how to fight.”

 

Sylvanas had paused and then laughed nervously. “Oh but you do know how to fight Jaina _,_ or am I delusional in that I’ve seen you decimate half an army with a singular spell alone.” She frowned petulantly, “not to mention what you did to my city wall.” Jaina laughed softly and stroked her arm in a silent apology. It was hard for the two of them to wrap their head around it sometimes, how they had been such bitter enemies in the past so the only way the two seemed to be able to tackle it was through poorly tasted humor.

 

“Oh you give me too much credit.” The human snorted. “It was hardly half an army,” Jaina held her hand up as Sylvanas parted her lips to answer. “That wasn’t what I was talking about and you know it.”

 

The elf huffed uneasily, knowing her attempts at distracting the mage had failed. It was mind-blowing really how she allowed the human to cup her face in her palms, how she couldn’t help but respond by draping her long limbs over the human, lazily basking in her warmth. A decade ago she had _hated_ Jaina simply because she’d loved Arthas. In her mind she couldn’t fathom how somebody could possibly have loved such a despicable monster without being one themselves. Then she’d pitied her, which arguably was worse since she’d dismissed her to be naught but a silly naïve human girl, thrust into churning waters she could not longer tread. Then came a grudging respect, the little human had grown up and when Theramore fell… Sylvanas shivered. When she’d marched to Orgrimmar, a tidal wave of enslaved elements at her back, ready to drown an entire city in order to get to Garrosh, it had awed her, nay it had _excited_ her. She’d wanted to stand beside the mage, feed from her rage and been the first to proudly bring her Garrosh’s head. Alas she’d had to be content with just watching, relieved that her Forsaken were safely miles away in Lordaeron. But she’d come for that too, for a different agenda but still the same horrible, _beautiful_ rage worn plainly in her expression. And then. Nothing. The next time Sylvanas laid eyes on her she’d been calm, at peace with herself and the elf found herself…betrayed. She watched from the shadows imagining all the things she might have said if her enemy would ever allow her to get close. _I know you don’t know me and we’ve barely spoken but I thought I knew you, except I don’t. And I don’t understand. What happened? Where could you possibly be that you are no longer so full of hate, I thought I understood you, I thought…I thought maybe we were the same. But now you are happy, and I am not and it’s not fair._

Fate had it that her questions were answered a few years later. And she’d been right, they _had_ been the same and what had calmed the fury in Jaina’s heart had finally began to temper the storm in hers.

 

Support, companionship. Acceptance.

 

Sometimes all you needed in your darkest moments was somebody to hold your hand.

 

Love.

 

Sylvanas froze. Yes, love as well. She knew she loved Jaina and Jaina probably knew that too, even if she’d yet to utter the words. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to but when that traitorous phrase bubbled to her lips she found it caught in her throat as though it were a curse waiting to be uttered. She feared that if she spoke them aloud, Jaina would die within the year.

 

Luckily her brilliant mage seemed to understand, never taking offence when Sylvanas could not reply to her declarations. She saw it in her actions, her body language and expression, for her it was enough.

 

But _Belore,_ Sylvanas still wanted to say it, if only to make her lover smile. Jaina had such a disarmingly sweet reaction to any form of affection Sylvanas would openly display. She would try to brush it off, act nonchalant but the unreserved joy shining in those ocean blue eyes was the reason Sylvanas kept trying. Affection was something she was still re-learning but it helped that Jaina made it easy to understand. She was getting better at it as well, it was clear in the way her thumb would brush across Jaina’s knuckles if she held her hand, obvious in the way she’d press a guiding hand on the small of Jaina’s back when they were in a busy crowd. If her military training in her youth had taught her anything, it was how to be chivalrous and she was finding it easier and easier to remember these days.

 

Which again brought her back to what Jaina had said last night. So Jaina wanted to learn to fight, physically, to protect herself in the event that her magic failed.

 

And _Belore_ help her, she’d agreed to try.

 

Combat.

 

It was something Sylvanas was more than familiar with. While primarily trained to be deadly with a bow she had a dictionary of knowledge on what to do when the last arrow fired. When one had spent a larger portion of her life on the blood-soaked soil of the battlefield, she was very familiar with being face to face with her enemy and she had always been prepared. Preparation was everything to her; it was in her actions, her thoughts and her emotions. Everything she did was calculated, tested, measured. So she could completely understand why Jaina had asked her of this, to train her… to help her be prepared. It was a dilemma, Sylvanas knew by training her she’d have to hurt her but she wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it instead. Jaina wasn’t someone who couldn’t handle pain, Sylvanas had seen with her own eyes how the human had caught an axe to her bicep and barely flinched, save for waving a healer over but then she’d favored that arm for _weeks._ She’d burned her hand and in her embarrassed refusal to see a healer she’d been effectively useless. Clearly channeling arcane through your hands was a physical feeling as she had hissed with pain every time she’d used it. Jaina was extremely powerful, had always been a formidable enemy and now a vital ally but her weakness was in her reliance on magic. If any enemy got too close if one was able to break through her defenses, get up close and personal… Sylvanas twisted her hands in the sheets. She didn’t want to think about it.

 

That night Sylvanas had made love to her wife in panicked reverence, as if the staggering truth of Jaina’s mortality had finally hit her in full force. She’d hovered over Jaina, fingers wrapped around the smooth pale column of her throat, watching the intoxicating visage of her strap riding in and out of her lover’s cunt. It soothed her somewhat to be calling the shots, drinking in the heady feel of someone as powerful as an Archmage submitting to her will. She loved how she could make Jaina feel good, how she could momentarily quiet the raging thoughts that would so often bring a worried frown to that pretty face of hers. She loved that she could watch as the Lord Admiral lay back with such blind trust, bliss written across her face as she gasped and whined and moaned. Could pinpoint the exact moment Jaina went to that headspace, completely abandoning her cares and worries, the burden on her shoulders, in favor of being looked after by her lover. Sylvanas _lived_ for it, lived for making Jaina feel good, existed to make her partner’s world a better place.

 

It was her newfound purpose in life, un-life, whatever she wanted to make of it. After Jaina had collapsed against her with a strangled and shaky cry, Sylvanas had held her, refusing to let go even as the human’s breaths evened out and her head dropped against her chest. She focused on Jaina’s breathing, that steady heartbeat and fought back the burning in her eyes at what this all could mean. Jaina was by no means fragile but she was only human.

 

And mortal.

 

That was another thing. Humans had such fleeting lives, Jaina might have been able to delay the inevitable process of her ageing with the sheer amount of arcane that flowed through her body but even someone of her caliber wasn’t infallible. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ Jaina would die, it was _when_ and to Sylvanas that fateful day would always come too soon. She was close to hitting forty and double that already miniscule lifespan and she’d be an old woman at eighty.

 

Just eighty years of life.

 

In a way Sylvanas was envious of it. This world held so much cruelty, so much pain. It was a blessing really to only have to deal with it for such a short amount of time. If her own final death didn’t hold such promise of unending agony she too would have been pleased to check out early. But then that would never have meant meeting Jaina. Sylvanas curled her arms tighter around the sleeping human, pleased that she was in a deep enough slumber not to notice. She wasn’t naïve enough to say that having Jaina in her life made all the suffering worth it but it sure did help. It opened her eyes to the possibility that the world could hold some kindness, could hold some hope even for a forgotten wretch like her. Unless it was just a means to make her suffer more, like how Arthas had taunted her with false sympathy, like how you would feed a starving hound scraps just to have it live long enough to fight another day. No. Not this time. This time she would defend what was hers with hackles raised and fangs bared, she would keep Jaina for as long as she could and that would mean teaching the human how to fight.

 

It still didn’t mean she was dreading the moment the she would wake up signalling the start to the day she would make good on that promise. She almost flinched when the mage took a particularly deep breath, stretching her body out until her limbs shook before letting out a deep groan and opening the one eye that wasn’t still buried in her pillow.

 

“Mmm what time is it?” Jaina mumbled groggily and Sylvanas glanced briefly at the shadows falling across the tiled floor.

 

“Early still, you can go back to sleep.”

 

“Hmm but then I don’t get to see you.” Jaina rolled over, nuzzling against Sylvanas side until she found a comfortable spot to lay her head against her chest.

 

_Belore_ it was hard to stop smiling these days and anyone who found out the truth that those sappy words brought such a silly reaction out of her would guarantee an arrow through their eye. Lucky, for them, Jaina was meticulous with her security wards and the mage still too out of it to notice her expression. Sylvanas busied herself with carding her fingers through sleep-mussed hair, focusing on gently removing the tangles as the mage hummed her appreciation.

 

“You don’t need to wait around for me if you have things to do.” Jaina murmured softly though the fact that she further nuzzled against the bare skin of her chest while tightening the hold of her arm around her stomach proved that Sylvanas getting out of bed was the last of the human’s wishes.

 

The elf briefly considered teasing her but decided against it, opting to shift further back against the pillows so she could pull the human fully into her arms and tuck her head below her chin. Jaina re-settled against her as if she belonged there, which Sylvanas supposed was the truth. “Mercifully, for once, I actually have nowhere to be until the afternoon, so there is no hurry.”

 

Jaina sighed in contentment. “I love this, you know, waking up next to you.” She stroked a hand along the elf’s forearm, admiring the way the fine white hairs caught the early morning sun. “I’m sorry, it must be incredibly boring, stuck in bed.”

 

“Not really. I go over documents, check my correspondence, meditate…” Sylvanas shrugged, “believe it or not I actually appreciate the routine and downtime.” Jaina didn’t need to know that watching her sleep was one of Sylvanas’s favorite things to do.

 

“Hmm.” Jaina seemed content with her answer and began to trace fingers gently along the side of a breast. Sylvanas sucked in a breath at the tickling sensation before flipping their positions in a seamless movement so that she was laying on top of the human a wicked grin on her face, making sure to bare her fangs since it always brought a deep flush to Jaina’s face. Today she would teach her wife how to fight… but not just yet, let her enjoy this just a while longer.

 

* * *

 

_Present: Proudmoore Keep, Boralus._

 

“Shhh, shhh, girl it’s okay it’s just me.” Jaina, despite her best attempts to calm the horse, realized that it was hopeless. The beast tossed its large head, snorting loudly with ears pinned and eyes white with fear. Of course like all things, the living would react negatively to the dead and she realized in her rush to escape she hadn’t even considered herself to be part of that camp.

 

Jaina tried to silently back away but the horse suddenly flared its nostrils and let out a clarion cry of fear. It was so loud in the still night air that she visibly swore and rushed to vault over the wooden divider and scramble behind a stack of straw bales, ignoring the unpleasant feel of dust and spider webs as she struggled to press her back between the hay rack and the wall. True to her suspicions the panicked cry of the horse alerted someone and she could hear muffled voices as they approached.

 

“Ey girl easy, easy.” Jaina could make out the sound of a hand patting a sweaty neck as the stable hand attempted to calm the horse. She heard more unsteady snorts and the soft croon of a young man’s voice. “Easy there, what’s got you riled up so eh girl?”

 

“Probably a rat.” Another voice sounded out and Jaina felt her skin crawl as she tentatively checked her surroundings. She didn’t think about there being rats.

 

Heavy boots against cobblestones and the unmistakable clink of heavy plate armor. Jaina sighed internally. A guard. Great.

“As if, the dock hounds would have snapped them critters up already.”

 

“Well I don’t see any dock hounds ‘round here do you? Idiot. Jensen’s got em patrolling near Unity Square, said we had to be on the look out for unwelcome visitors. Well, more so than usual.”

 

“What you mean?”

 

Heavy boots shuffled closer, Jaina heard the creak of a door and surmised the guard had joined the hand in the stable.

 

“Well don’t be repeatin’ this and if ye do don’t be tellin’ no one it were from me.” The guard dropped his voice. “So rumor has it the Lady Proudmoore died out on the battlefield and that Banshee wife of hers raised her. She be undead, like the rest of them Forsaken lot.”

 

The stable hand made a noise of surprise. “Oh shit really? She gone and done that to our Jaina?”

 

“I shit you not. Real sad story if anything, misfortune seems to follow that girl around like a bad stink.”

 

I bet the Lord Admiral ‘aint too happy about that either, that’s like a big middle finger up to the Tidemother if anything.”

 

“Aye tell me about it and you bet the Lady Katherine was none too pleased. We got strict orders to not be lettin’ her out that castle.”

 

“Or what? You think she’s a threat?”

 

“Who knows, we have orders to keep her alive but with the King of Stormwind here we’ve been given a strict set of priorities.”

 

“Priorities?” Jaina froze, eyes open wide despite the gloom as though if she stared hard enough she could somehow hear the muted voices a little clearer.

 

“States here in our orders to expect trouble and that includes suspicious movements from the Lady Proudmoore herself.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The undead one, bucket brain- is it the late hour or are ye usually this dense?”

 

“Hey was just makin’ sure!”

 

The guard grunted before carrying on. “Either way our first priority is to maintain the safety of the livin’ members and that means we gotta move against The Lady Proudmoore, younger, if action calls for it.”

 

“Oh tides that’s cold, to have t’ be the one to strike our lady down like that.”

 

The guard laughed bitterly and Jaina could hear the clink of what sounded like a polearm being leant against a wall. “I mean lets face it, she ain’t been our Lady in a long time.”

 

Jaina closed her eyes. So this was it, what it meant to be Forsaken.

 

Her chest ached, ached for Sylvanas. Wondered if this was how she had felt when the former hero of Silvermoon had tried to return to her people only to be treated with revulsion, the natural world she had once been so in sync with rejecting her very existence. She mourned the Forsaken, how so many had tried to come home seeking respite from their torment only to be held at sword point by the very arms they’d ached to be embraced by. This world was so cruel, so unforgiving but Sylvanas had chosen this life for her and Jaina wondered at what point had her wife decided this fate in her stead, had taken that choice away before she’d even realized she’d had one.

 

“Well I’ll tell you what guard, I’ll take my leave and see if Jensen can spare a hound to ‘ave a skulk around the barn. See if we can spot one of them rats. If the situation is as serious as it is I don’t want a restless horse to be the one drawing false attention away from yer patrols.”

 

“Aye do it now, I can wait here with the horse. No time like the present.”

 

“Ye sure?”

 

“Just be quick about it, this place gives me the creeps. Somethin’ about the way some ‘orses sleep standin’ up. Creeps me out.”

 

The stablehand let out a chuckle and jogged away.

 

Jaina’s eyes widened. No. They couldn’t bring dogs here, it would sense her immediately and even if she had the advantage of not tiring if she ran, there was no way she could out pace a dog. She’d seen those things train in action, relentless, the crushing snap of their jaws impossible to break free from. The guard was blocking her escape but it was one guard, alone and she sure as hell had more of a chance at fighting him off than a pack of battle trained hounds.

 

Memories flickered in the back of her mind. Of what Sylvanas had taught her and she grimaced, even now she was relying on her wife, still so dependent even in her absence but in that moment she felt soothed by the steady advice of her words in the back of her head.

 

Keep your stance even, don’t let your punches throw your weight forward, if in doubt go for the eyes…

 

She would have mere minutes before the stable hand returned with dogs and possibly a patrol of soldiers if they made too much noise in their scuffle. She would have to be quick. Jaina thought of how Sylvanas had sparred with her, relentless and intense but she’d been so attentive, soothing aches after each session, whispering praises when she’d got things right…

 

_I hate you._ Jaina thought bitterly as she slowly crept behind her cover, eyes zeroing in on the guard in front of her, still unaware of her presence. _You took a choice from me without my consent; you resigned me to a fate you so readily preached as joyless suffering. I hate…_ she paused sliding the knife from her pocket as the guard turned to face her, eyes wide in alarm and mouth open, ready to cry out. _I hate that I miss you._


	7. Courting Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas looks good on any throne, especially ones that are too big for her.

_Ogrimmar, Durotar_

 

Grommash hold, despite the less than savory history of its original occupier, was a safe haven to Sylvanas. Well guarded, well warded and while many would declare it’s crude metal and stone structure an architectural insult to anyone that wasn’t an orc, Sylvanas had come to appreciate this place as home. It was like her, utilitarian and sharp around the edges- it didn’t lie about its purpose with fancy arches or flowery accents. It was a heavily fortified dwelling, built to house someone with a lot of enemies. 

 

And enemies she had, by the cartful...or boat-ful in her most recent case. Reports had come in of one of her ships being harassed by a triad of Frigates… all flying Kul Tiran colours. The boat hadn’t even been Forsaken, no more than a simple merchant vessel- crewed by Orcs and Goblins- bringing in supplies to the hungry mouths of her posted regiment on the shores of the Eastern Kingdoms continent. Not a single shot was fired, no- The Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore wasn’t foolish enough to start a war- but the moment the trans-oceanic vessel passed within the territorial waters of Kul Tiras on a routine trading run, out of the fog the Frigates emerged, swift and silent, moving somewhat unnaturally from the way the Tidesages channeled the waves at the front. They clung to the ship like a curse, moving just within visual range, drifting in and out of the fog like silent predators, waiting for a singlar wrong move in order to strike. The Goblin that reported looked exhausted as he relayed his message, clearly unnerved and unable to sleep as the boats menacingly trailed them for days. It hadn’t been until they were well away from the Island that they broke free of the strange fog and the Frigates in turn broke off their menacing chase. 

 

It seemed her dear Mother-In-Law was sending a clear message. That the nation of Kul Tiras was more than ready to bury the blade the moment her back was turned. 

 

Sylvanas huffed and resisted the urge to swat away the necromancer who was dutifully wrapping enchanted bandages around her palms and wrists. If it weren’t for the fact that she desperately needed them to be bound, she would have been much more content to be left alone, yet she was gravely injured and in dire need of fixing-

 

-Hand to hand combat with an elite Naga General tended to do that to a person.

 

 A knock sounded at the large oak door and that urge became more pressing but, with a will stronger than iron, she let out a hollow sigh and leaned back against the throne. Built for the lanky frame of a troll, it was far too tall and wide for her slight frame yet strangely still suited her as she glared at the knocking intruder with all the caution and disdain of a Queen. 

 

“Enter Nathanos.”

 

To the untrained ear, Nathanos trod just as lightly as any ranger but to Sylvanas, his gait- no matter how measured- was clear as a winter morning sky. 

 

The former Ranger Lord and current Champion of the Banshee Queen stepped inside, face impassive save for the sour quirk of his lips as though scolded that she was so easily able to tell it was him. He snapped to attention in a Ranger’s salute, waiting patiently until Sylvanas airily gestured, with the hand that wasn’t being currently attended to, for him to speak. 

 

“Reports from the front- falling back and reinforcing our remaining lines has proved to be a success, the assault from the Naga Legions has lessened. Seemingly weakened by having to trek so far from the ocean, they appeared to have held off their ceaseless assaults for now and our casualties have more than halved as a result of your orders. It appears it was the right thing to do in giving up our front lines in favor or reinforcing those further in land. As usual, people were correct to trust your judgement.”

 

“Hm, were they?” Sylvanas mused, fighting back an irritated scowl as the necromancer pulled out another wad of fabric and began to wind them around her other arm. “And was the Lady Proudmoore correct in trusting my judgement as well?” 

 

Nathanos stiffened, blood-orange eyes fractionally widening at the strangely direct and personal question. The lines at the corner of his mouth deepened as he frowned. 

 

“I believe she made the correct judgment in trusting you to act in her best interest.” 

 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes and Nathanos straightened under her scrutiny. 

 

“I broke my own rule, Blightcaller” Sylvanas eventually sighed, voice softer than he’d ever heard her, at least since she was...alive. 

 

Nathanos didn’t answer, he already knew which rule Sylvanas was referring to- the absolute line in which she’d refused to cross. Until now. 

 

“When Garrosh all but declared I was no different from The Lich King I wanted to kill that heinous brute right there and then. It was nothing short of a miracle that I managed to restrain myself from instantly demanding that his wretched corpse be stuffed with arrows and fed as a fine meal to one of my stitched guards.” Even now, after all this time Sylvanas fought the urge to savour that image in her mind but her mood soured as she was pulled back into the present and to Nathanos’s devout yet imploring stare. “Yet the words he spoke still plague me to this day, words that until recently I’d made peace with... for without offering free will to all my subjects, what truly makes me different from _him_ anymore _?_ ” 

 

The necromancer stood back, yellow eyes staring questioningly up at her in silent question for her permission to continue. Sylvanas tested the flex of her fingers under the fresh wrappings, a little restrictive, but they would do for now. She nodded once for him to continue and he cautiously approached the foot of her throne, before kneeling down and starting his task of removing the heavy plate armor from her right leg. 

 

Nathanos glanced at his movements, as if only now realizing the significance of the work. 

 

“You are not being healed?” 

 

Sylvanas sighed. “My Valkyr are formidable beings, but individually they are lost. It is through their shared bond of sisterhood that the true nature of their power lies. Losing one to death cripples the rest and for them to regain their use, I must allow them their time to grieve…” Sylvanas exhaled, one sabotan scraping against the stone floor as she shifted to allow the necromancer more room to work. “But you know this, Blightcaller so why not save us both the trouble and speak plainly.” 

 

Nathanos looked down, finding it hard to hold that fiery red gaze. “I find it hard...” He eventually started, lifting his hand to absently scratch at his beard in a gesture very similar to what he’d done in life. A nervous tick, Sylvanas remembered this. “I find it hard to understand why you would have put yourself through all this risk, for the sake of Lady Proudmoore’s continued existence.” 

 

Sylvanas tilted her head. “She was my wife.” 

 

“Political wife.” 

 

“It… was deeper than that.”

 

Nathanos _almost_ smiled, though at this point many suspected he lacked the facial muscles to manage that. “I know.” 

 

Sylvanas flinched as sharp, skeletal fingers scraped against the torn skin of the inside of her knee. The necromancer wheezed out fervent apologies in a rasped, whispery voice but she silenced him with a sharp glare. 

 

“These bandages, heavily strengthened and enchanted will keep me sufficiently… held together until the power of the Valkyr is able to restore my wounds.” Sylvanas ran a scrutinising eye over the necromancer’s work before seeming satisfied and turning back to Nathanos. “You must do the same if you come to any injury that might cripple your physical performance.” 

 

Nathanos nodded before smirking slightly. “I shall, although I believe I have a better method.” 

 

Sylvanas raised a pale, whisker-like eyebrow. “Oh and what’s that?” 

 

“Not getting injured in the first place.” 

 

The Banshee Queen chuckled, in what had been the first time since Jaina had fell. “Why Blightcaller, such candid advice. Perhaps one you would do well in sharing with my wife when she finally feels ready to return to us.” 

 

Nathanos suddenly froze, eyes darting away and Sylvanas didn’t miss the look of fear behind them. 

 

“Something I need to know?” Sylvanas straightened from her casual slouch so she was sat to attention, ears pinned back. 

 

“The reason, the real reason I came here wasn’t just to deliver a report from the front.” Nathanos looked as though he would be sweating if he were able as his hand tightened on the hilt of his axe as if ready to defend himself from any outburst. 

 

“Well?” Sylvanas fought to keep her voice calm, “Spit it out.” 

 

The former Ranger Lord swallowed. “Reports from our spies in Kul Tiras stated they lost contact with Lady Proudmoore the evening before, only to have their suspicions confirmed from overhearing orders given to the Proudmoore Admiralty Elite earlier this morning. In other words, she’s gone missing and nobody, not even The High King or the Lord Admiral herself seem to know where.”

 

The silence in the room was deafening. Nathanos stood still, stoic as ever, expecting whatever unpleasant fate to befall him with bated breath. Sylvanas was sometimes known to shoot the messenger. 

 

So it came as a shock when The Warchief calmly stood, armor clinking as she meticulously did up the buckles where she’d loosened it for the necromancer to tend to her with surprisingly steady hands.  

 

“Fetch me a plague bat” She growled in a voice so low and deep it sounded inhuman before striding past him, already pulling her hood up and over her head in a swift and practiced motion. She barely paused for the necromancer to rush to her side, handing her gloves and gauntlets and almost doubling over in a frenzied bow of fear and reverence as she spared him a glance.

 

While wise to remain silent and do as he was ordered, Nathanos couldn’t help but yell after her. 

 

“You know earlier when you implied that Garrosh’s words haunted you, that you fear you are becoming the Lich King. Do you want to know...” Nathanos further raised his voice as the distance between him and his Warchief increased, “...Do you want to know the difference between you and the Lich King?” 

 

Sylvanas didn’t verbally respond, but the twitch of her ears in his direction was reason enough that she was listening to his words. 

 

“You still care.” 

 

Sylvanas faltered her step, refusing to look at him before continuing to stride out the door. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Drustvar, Kul Tiras_

 

She hadn’t meant to kill the guard. It had all happened so quickly, one moment she’d been wrestling with him, losing her grip on his arms as he forced her to stagger back with a particularly nasty backhand to her jaw, then, before she’d known it, her knife had plunged into his throat and he’d staggered back, gurgling and frantically scrabbling at his windpipe as blood bubbled from his lips. She’d gasped out apologies, half turned to crouch down and aid him but the distant barking of dogs had her body running for the cliff almost instinctively. She also hadn’t actively planned to jump into the turbulent waters until her body was already plunging into the freezing depths. 

 

And now she was alone, in the dark and washed up on a shoreline she’d hoped she’d never have to return to ever again. 

 

Drustvar, where death courted life- each dancing on a razor thin line. The veil between worlds so thin it allowed all sorts of horrors to creep through. 

 

She really wished she hadn’t killed that guard. Her hands, washed clean from the ocean still felt sticky with blood. If she closed her eyes for too long, the image of him gurgling for air as thick crimson dribbled down his chin flashed behind her eyelids.

 

She’d killed before, oh she had killed, but somehow this felt so… personal. She’d seen the horror fade from his eyes along with his life, felt his body become heavy in her arms as she gently lowered the bulk of it onto the unforgiving, wet stone tiles. 

 

It was so much easier to end a life behind a spell.

 

Something burned at the back of her throat and her jaw trembled as the muscles there began to involuntarily clench. The sandy dirt, saturated with red pine needles soon became splattered with the contents of her stomach. 

 

Wonderful. So she _could_ still do that. 

 

She wiped at her mouth and laughed bitterly to herself only for those laughs to become full on hysterical cackles as she slowly crawled her way from the shoreline, hoping to get behind the tree line before any patrols from the estuary might spot her. She eventually flopped back, caring little for the damp detritus of the forest floor, she paused only to tug at the straps across her chest when she noticed how her staff was digging into her back. 

 

Something moved amongst the trees. She stiffened. 

 

Now what. 

 

Her hope for it to be nothing more than a fox or a deer was cut short when eerie blue eyes cut through the shadows of the trees. 

 

A wicker hound. An abomination of tree bark, antlers and old bleached bones, all tied together with dark magic, watching her. Jaina yanked the staff from its straps and held it out in front of her, ready to use it as a means of protection. She just hoped the creature was at least alone, she was in no fit state to defend herself should a whole pack charge at once. 

 

Yet no attack came, the wicker beast leapt down from the fallen tree in which it was perched on and began to slink in her direction, very unlike its usual behavior of aggressively bounding with broken jagged splinters for teeth- bared and ready to sink into her flesh. 

 

Jaina froze, holding her staff tentatively out in front, hoping she might be able to bait the creature in clamping its jaws around the magically imbued wood instead of her. The wicker hound continued to pad forward, strange little claws unsheathing, only to grip at the dirt as it crouched in front of the freshly raised human, as if it were a stray dog tentatively approaching for scraps of food. Jaina frowned and, against her better judgement, found her hand reaching in its direction. 

 

A lash of bright magic whipped at the wicker beast, sending it whimpering and skittering away into the cover of the trees. Jaina jolted violently and spun around, half expecting an entire guard to have crept up on her without realizing.

 

Idiot, she should have been finding cover, not getting distracted by the, albeit unique, _wildlife._ Her thoughts died though when she saw it was but one figure, only for her still heart to almost restart when she focused in on their features. She gasped, eyes stinging with tears that would never come. 

 

“Be careful with those, while fascinating, they are but twisted mockeries of the original creatures of Drustvar, bound together with unholy magic that must be purged from these lands… but that is another story. Hello Jaina, it’s been a while hasn’t it? I was sent to find you and I’m so glad I did, at least… before anyone else.” The figure paused and the strangely angelic features twisted into a slight grimace. “I’m sorry your induction into undeath has been less than… ideal but I’m here to help that, here to help you.” 

 

Jaina slowly stood, eyes still wide in shock. 

 

“Calia” She breathed, still not quite believing her words even though she was the one to utter them, “Calia Menethil.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathanos is a good boi, for once. 
> 
> Now this story starts to get interesting... I hope...can't wait to show you next chapter ahhhh.


	8. Little Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Jaina discovers more about what happened to Calia, Sylvanas and Anduin form an unlikely duo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone mentioned in the comments about "murderous jealousy?" 
> 
> Yep. That be a valid description.
> 
> Some mild warning for gore, possessions are not all sunshine and rainbows.

_Stormsong Valley, Kul’Tiras_

 

The sky was a brilliant red, as the sun set lazily over the horizon. It seemed as though it were reflecting the bloodlust that Sylvanas felt as she soared above the clouds. The air was cool and silent, save for the rhythmic flap of leathery wings as the plague bat tirelessly flew east. 

 

Her eyes scanned the distant ground below that peaked through the sparing gaps in the heavy cloud cover. Approaching the Isle of Kul Tiras would be difficult but not impossible. It had taken a while to get here on the back of a beast, but with the land all but hostile to the Horde, she knew arriving by portal or airship would only spell disaster, and her likely execution by the hand of the Lord Admiral herself. 

 

Inconvenient setbacks that would only delay her in her search for Jaina. 

 

If only Sylvanas had an inkling of where her wife was headed. For once, she was without insider knowledge and instead would have to start from scratch. Proudmoore Keep was the obvious choice to begin her search, then she could work her way out from there. If Jaina was declared missing and thus far no sightings had been reported, then she had obviously avoided any obvious method of transport- and couldn’t have gone far. For the first time, Sylvanas was grateful that Jaina was cut off from her magic, it would have been anyone’s guess were she able to teleport. 

 

No, scratch that, she’d rather Jaina lost and with her magic, than lost and potentially in grave danger. The steady wingbeat of her mount faltered and Sylvanas realized she’d been gripping the harness too tightly. She absently ran her fingers through its downy fur in a silent apology before nudging it to dive through the cloud cover below. She glanced one last time at the sun and the still, crisp air before committing to the descent. 

 

Then layer of cloud hit and everything changed. 

 

Sharp stinging rain and squalling winds whipped at her cloak and threatened to send her poor mount spiralling out of control. It took all of her concentration to guide the beast safely through the thickest part of the cloud cover and then over the cliffside, knowing that one wrong move on her part would only serve to smash them against the jagged rocks. A light, dim and wavering, flickered in the distance and was all Sylvanas could use to orientate herself and not be lost amongst the offshore fog and relentless howl of the winds that buffeted her from all directions. 

 

Eventually the light became two which stood either side a small clearing cut into the cliff face in which she could land. While unable to tire, the plague bat seemed eager to touch down upon the smooth, rain-soaked stone, claws skittering as it scrambled to a rather ungainly standstill. Sylvanas uncurled her stiff fingers from the pommel of the harness and softly scratched at its patchy fur, watching as one long ear flicked back in appreciation. One of her Dark Rangers, Allanah, was already there to take the reins as she lithely hopped down onto the ground, surveying the bleak landscape in front of her. The stone slabbed pathway nearly shone from how damp it was, reflecting the grey and moody sky above. Puddles collected in every crack and divot in the rocks, running in little streams and rivlets to the ledges below. It was pretty, yet unnatural. The rocks, smoothed from years of erosion had symbols etched in stone, markings nearly as old as human civilization itself. The pools of water, crystal clear yet devoid of aquatic life, pure...and sterile. The damp grass, spongy with moss was far too green. Stormsong Valley, with its rolling hills, fertile soil and the saturation of elemental magic within the land and tides all amounted to this- the disturbing stone structures of the old Tigesage temple. Once a place of worship, now accursed ruins, tainted by the Void and its minions. 

 

Jaina mentioned that her future would have lead here had it not been for her mother’s insistence that she trained in Dalaran. In her younger years many a Kul Tiran citizen would have found it hard to imagine; the beloved Lord Admiral’s daughter, clad in muted green robes, a cowl shrouding her face in darkness as she called upon the dark and sinister powers from the ocean depths. Katherine Proudmoore had stated that the path of the Tidesage was a dark one, ill suited to her daughter’s bright and inquisitive nature but Sylvanas knew the truth. Jaina would have made the _perfect_ tidesage- intelligent and reserved yet beneath that facade- a darkness within. A lust for power that she hid well behind an eagerness to learn. People might be afraid of that fact but Sylvanas _loved_ her all the more for it, loved that in the privacy of their quarters Jaina had freely admitted that with her thirst for knowledge, came a hunger for power. That not only did she listen to whispered promises of power but, on occasion, entertained them as well. 

 

“Dark Lady?” A voice questioned her in fluid Thalassian, pulling her back into the present.  “We have the guard you wished for.” 

 

Red eyes flared as lips pulled back into a fanged grimace. “Ah yes, the little rat who’s sold us vital information in his lust for material goods. Useful yes, but still a rat… send him to me.” 

 

The guard was marched in, seemingly horrified by the abomination that flanked him from behind. Sylvanas smirked- while her own hulking guards were a disturbing sight to look at, their loyalty was pure, almost childlike in its innocence- not greedy and corrupt like this sorry individual that dared wear the green and gold crest of the Proudmoore Admiralty on his tabard. 

 

Despite the obvious discomfort at being surrounded by the undead, he inclined his head and met Sylvanas’s gaze with the bravado of one who had no idea of the danger he was in. 

 

“So ye the famed Dark Lady ay? Thought you’d be taller an’ all.” The guard shrugged, heavy plate pauldrons clinking as he fiddled at the loose leather of his thick gloves. His body was well muscled from training though carried a softness in his belly that suggested a love for drinking, his beard was trimmed yet patchy as though he’d made a minimal effort to appear up to standard. He was pale, unassuming, neither ugly nor pleasing to look at. A face that could easily be overlooked in a crowd. 

 

He was perfect. 

 

“A pleasure to meet you…” Sylvanas drawled before pausing, lifting a pale eyebrow in question.

 

“Thurston, Jim Thurston.” The guard blurted out when he realized the Dark Lady was waiting for an introduction, he stuck out a gloved hand, the leather streaked by the rain. 

 

Sylvanas made no move to take it, letting the guard drop his hand and shuffle awkwardly. 

 

A boring name for a boring man. This was going to be easy. 

 

“Your information on the on-goings of Proudmoore Keep has been vital, for that we thank you.” Sylvanas let her voice become silky smooth, almost a croon that caused the guard to both flush and puff his chest out with pride. 

 

“Ay twas difficult at first but ye ‘ave paid me well, far more than the chumps at Proudmoore Admiralty care to throw my way. Barely ‘ave enough to scrape by and they wonder why loyalties amongst the ranks are so easily swayed.” The guard spat at the ground and Sylvanas refrained from curling her lip up in disgust. 

 

The payment package of an Elite Proudmoore guard member included food, housing, healthcare- all the benefits to keep his family warm, well fed and prospering. Sylvanas knew this- she also knew that a man such as Thurston hated that fact, hated that his payment plan forced his family to be looked after when he would much rather be spending it on drink and gambling. 

 

Kul Tirans were such a crass bunch of humans- glorified pirates really. 

 

Too bad she was married to one. 

 

“Well then, perhaps this would be of interest to you.” Sylvanas motioned with a twitch of her gauntleted hand and the hulking abomination shuffled into view, setting down a heavy chest, the lid pulled back to reveal a pile of glowing shards of rock. 

 

“Azerite.” The guard practically salivated as his small, greedy eyes fixated on the prize. “How’d ye get your hands on that much?” He questioned, another tell that he had no real idea of just who exactly he was dealing with. 

 

“I have my ways” Sylvans replied, hiding a smirk as Allanah, still watching the exchange from the shadows, rolled her eyes heavenwards. “All this can be yours, if you are willing to do one simple favor for me.” 

 

The guard struggled to compose himself, straightening in some poor show of consideration before he nodded. “What’s it to be then?” 

 

Sylvanas, smirked, careful to hide her sinister fangs as she stepped forward. “I must warn you, what I’m about to request of you will be rather… personal- but I believe...” And she motioned for the abomination to shut the lid of the crate, watching how the guard seemed to deflate as the mountain of wealth disappeared before his eyes. “...You and I can come to an agreement.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Proudmoore Keep, Kul’Tiras_

 

Anduin frowned, watching as the Lord Admiral ordered the remaining troops away, still conversing closely with Mathias Shaw as they huddled around the markings that outlined what had once been the corpse of a murdered guard. Blood still stained the tiles, a mixture of dark copper and black- one spilt from a living body and the other from one who was dead. 

 

A struggle. 

 

The knife was still on the scene, held between Shaw’s fingers as the SI:7 agent inspected the blade. It had been buried in the throat of the guard when the rest of Proudmoore Elite arrived, the body already cooling and long since expired. He’d died quickly, they’d said, relatively painlessly. 

 

But at the hands of Jaina- or so the evidence seemed to have them believe. 

 

They must have been missing something. Anduin racked his brains, already fighting the pressure of a headache behind his eyes- he was getting a lot of them these days. He was young and yet his body already felt old, his muscles ached, his shoulders felt weighted as they hunched against the relentless drizzle and stinging wind. 

 

There were no trees, he thought as he squinted at the barren courtyard from atop the rain-slicked stairs. Why were there no bloody trees. 

 

He noticed however, that despite orders to clear the area, one guard remained- standing to attention- polearm in hand and one arm behind their back. He stared at them for a moment longer wondering why they stayed before the guard seemed to notice the weight of his gaze and snapped to attention, marching away. 

 

Anduin frowned before shaking his head. The terse atmosphere was making him suspicious and jumpy- he was about ready to take his leave just so he could grab something to eat and change to a dryer set of clothes. He felt uncomfortable and damp under his armor but he would appear resolute, as a comfort, to help set the Lord Admiral’s mind at ease that the Alliance was just as concerned about Jaina’s whereabouts as she was. 

 

The Lord Admiral stared up at him, misery in her eyes and Anduin felt guilt twist within his chest. He hurried down the steps to her side and Katherine appeared to compose herself as she bowed stiffly in his direction. 

 

“Shaw believes it was Jaina who attacked the guard.” Katherine uttered the statement, emotionless and haltingly as though it pained her to say it. Anduin frowned but nodded stiffly. He hated to admit it too, but it seemed that way. 

 

“A misunderstanding, I’m sure” Anduin replied, trying his best to keep an open mind. “She must have felt like she had no choice.” 

 

Katherine nodded, almost feverishly, as though she were hanging onto those words like a lifeline. _She had no choice, her daughter wasn’t bad, her daughter was no murderer._ Anduin could practically guess her frantic thoughts.  

 

“Why did she feel the need to leave- we were going to help her Anduin I-” Katherine all at once seemed to realize who she was talking to and straightened, clearing her throat and masking her expression. “We have been out here long enough and obtained the answers we needed, no use making ourselves miserable in this rain, let us go inside.” Her voice cracked as she forced it into a more cheery tone. “How does tea sound?” 

 

Her words, that stoic yet slightly manic smile of a person who was due a breakdown but didn’t have time for one- it was all too much like Jaina that Anduin felt something within his chest break. 

 

“Tea sounds lovely, Lord Admiral.” He smiled warmly, hoping she could not see the uncertainty in his eyes. 

 

It was a relief to finally reach his temporary quarters, a guard followed, holding a tray of food he’d requested be brought from the kitchen to eat in private. Clam chowder and fresh crusty bread, still hot from the oven. He practically salivated at the thought of having something warm in his belly- perhaps on a full stomach his nerves would sufficiently calm in order to face Katherine Proudmoore when he joined her in the dining hall below. 

 

“Set it on the table over there” he sighed wearily, shrugging off his heavy plate, all too eager to get out of the wet clothing. The guard did as ordered and Anduin dismissed him, briefly wondering what it was about the man that seemed familiar before mentally shrugging and turning back to undoing the straps of his chest plate. 

 

The heavy oak door slammed…but the guard remained inside, glaring at him with a sinister grin on his face. 

 

“It’s not easy is it,” The strangely familiar man spat, taking great care to twist off the handle off the door with inhuman strength, locking them both inside. “Having to lie to those you care about.” 

 

Anduin felt his stomach drop, hand instantly going for the hilt of his sword to draw it, only to find his fingers clutching air. 

 

“What in the...” the rest of his nerves disappeared when he noticed the voice of the guard had an ethereal echo to it, not unlike... “Sylvanas” he hissed, eyes widening in horror as he instantly called upon the Light only to find himself held at the end of his own sword, the sharp tip of the blade pressed under the soft skin of his throat. 

 

“Now, now” the guard growled, the brown of his eyes giving away to red as the sword pressed closer, to the point that it became uncomfortable yet not enough to break skin. “Let us not be hasty, my intent isn’t to hurt you.” 

 

“That seems…” Anduin coughed, trying to back away from the pressure, “Hard to believe.”

 

“You have information I require,” The guard, Sylvanas… whatever it was... continued, ignoring his outburst. In a singular and fluid movement, they lowered the sword and shifted their hand up the blunted edge of the blade, twisting it so the pommel was held out to him in offering. A gesture that might have been a sign of trust were it from anyone else but the Banshee Queen. “Now we can do this the easy way where you and me part unscathed or we can do this the hard way where either scenario spells out disaster for you- be that in your death of the fact that you’ll have to explain to my dear mother-in-law why there’s a dead guard in your chambers murdered by your hand.”

 

There was a moment of heavy silence as The High King struggled to process those words, eventually he deflated- the Light fading from his hands as lowered them from their position of defence. 

 

“Fuck you” Anduin growled, snatching the sword from the possesed guard’s hands and sheathing it. 

 

Red eyes flared, “My my, aren’t you a little young for such language?” They taunted, a cruel smirk upon their lips. “Though I’m glad you could see it my way Little Lion.” 

 

“What do you want Banshee?” Anduin felt a bit sick, hearing that all too familiar taunt in the gruff voice of a Kul Tiran. In his short time on Azeroth he’d already seen an unspeakable amount of horrors but this...this was possibly one of the most disturbing things he’d seen in a while. 

 

“Let’s not waste time dancing around the subject. You know where Jaina is, don’t you.” Sylvanas stated, rather than asked. 

 

“I…” Anduin narrowed his eyes. “How do you know this?” 

 

The guard scoffed and stepped closer, it took everything within Anduin not to draw his sword, knowing Sylvanas had only given it to him as a symbol of negotiation- it would do little to protect him should it come to blows and he _really_ didn’t want to come to that. Fighting Sylvanas as she was was disturbing enough, fighting Sylvanas while she pulled the strings of this poor guard like a marionette would haunt his memories for life. 

 

“You barely glanced at the crime scene and even as she is, I know your love and concern for your _Aunt_ still transcends her undeath. I’d almost be impressed, if you cared to extend that courtesy to the rest of my Forsaken that have been driven from their homes.” The guard bared his teeth as though Sylvanas had forgotten the body she wore had no fangs, but it was still a disturbing enough sight for the King to visibly flinch. “If you, like my poor mother-in-law, was left in the dark, you'd still be out there, scouring the entirety of the keep in the hope to find even the slightest bit of evidence that might have been missed. The fact that The Lord Admiral is still out there, drenched to the bone in the rain as she pleads with anyone who will listen if they saw anything that night, while you cower up here is fact enough that you know something she doesn’t. Which begs the question,” The guard stepped even closer, to the point that Anduin could see the red flecks in his eyes, see the sickly pallor of his skin as his body reacted negatively to the possession. “What could it possibly be that you feel the need to keep the truth from her, keep the truth from _me.”_

 

“Jaina came here to get away from _you,_ I’m hardly going to go against her wishes, I thought you’d at least have the decency to respect that.” 

 

The guard laughed harshly, his voice an inhuman growl, “I _respected_ that knowing she would be safe, clearly I overestimated your competence in honoring that. As far as I’m concerned any unspoken deal we had is off, now tell me where she is.” 

 

“I...don’t know” Anduin swallowed noticing now that the red flecks in the guard’s irises weren’t just from possesed glow of her gaze, tiny capillaries were bursting in the whites of his eyes now as well. 

 

“Anduin…” The guard turned slightly to spit on the ground which the King realized in horror was blood. “I thought you were smart enough not to lie to me.” 

 

The King glanced around frantically “I really don’t know!” He hissed, flinching as the guard grabbed his chin between two thick gloved fingers, glaring into his horrified blue eyes as crimson stained lips parted in a sneer. “All I know is that she’s safe, they departed Kul Tiras in a small vessel early this morning- that’s all I have been informed of.” 

 

The guard pulled back, still keeping a tight grip on the King’s jaw, heavy eyebrows furrowing. “They?” 

 

Anduin’s expression fell. Fuck. He’d said too much. 

 

“She’s with someone, she’s safe, guarded. That’s all you need to know, now let me go.” Anduin’s voice nearly went up in two octaves as he began to panic but the grip only tightened. Blood stained teeth bared in a downright wicked snarl, contorting the guard’s face into something unnatural and terrifying. The fingers released his jaw only to grab his neck and squeeze. Anduin struggled but the disturbing strength of the guard only tightened his grip as the King tried to call upon the Light. His chest burned with a need to breathe and dark spots began to dance in his vision. 

 

“Hurting you was really not my intention when I came here but I swear by your precious Light Anduin I will…” 

 

“Calia Menethil,” He wheezed and the grip released him. He stumbled, almost doubling over as he gasped in desperate breaths. “She’s with Calia Menethil.”

 

He really wasn’t sure how Sylvanas would react, he expected her to scream, expected every window of the residence tower to shatter as her banshee form exploded into being. Expected his security to come rushing in only to be torn down as her shadowy form ripped them to shreds. 

 

What he didn’t guess was the guard to quietly away back from him, jaw working soundlessly as they walked to the window to glare out of it and absolutely did not expect a sudden stream of Thalassian curse words to explode from their lips as they swept the contents of Anduin’s now cold dinner off the table in a mess of broken china and splattered chowder. 

 

In his surprise the King almost laughed at the rather human reaction but mercifully kept quiet, knowing it would most likely end up in his untimely death. Sylvanas Windrunner always seemed to do the last thing he expected, it was frankly exhausting. 

 

“Which port did they leave from?” The Warchief spat, gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as the legs of the guard moved to pace rapidly back and forth across the tiled floor. 

 

“They didn’t give me the name” Anduin gulped, quickly continuing as red eyes narrowed at him. “It was a neutral port, west of Drustvar- somewhere near the Crimson Forest, that’s all I can give you.” 

 

“That will do, come, let’s head there now. No time like the present.” 

 

“Wait, you’re taking me with you?” Anduin exclaimed unhappily. 

 

“Yes, I will need your influence when it comes to questioning which idiot sold them a boat and what provisions they took on board. I’d rather not have word going around of my whereabouts and this body,” the guard gave a pained grimace, noticing the raised veins spreading across their wrists as though suffering from an infection, “this body will not last long.” 

 

Anduin resisted the urge to be sick. “Then let’s not waste time,” he replied through gritted teeth. 

 

* * *

 

 

_Somewhere off the coast of Drustvar_

 

Jaina thought she’d have cried herself out by now, countless tearless sobs later as she’d embraced what had once been her closest childhood friend and even now she could help but get a little choked up whenever she looked up from the steering the boat to gaze at her newest companion in disbelief. Calia had changed, that was certain, yet she was still the _same_ and it filled Jaina with a tenuous hope she hadn’t felt since she was forcibly raised. 

 

Calia was here for her, Calia _understood._ She wasn’t alone anymore. 

 

“I don’t know why I’m surprised Proudmoore, that you chose this as our method of travel above all else.” She glanced at the waves in wary disdain and Jaina fought the urge to throw her head back and laugh. It was just so like her, she’d always looked at Jaina with some form of bemusement when she’d unwittingly let her Kul Tiran upbringing shine through. Whether it had been a crude saying or a colorful curse word, Calia had reacted to it with fascinated horror, as though in disbelief that a woman of noble descent could act in such a way. Jaina wasn’t crass by any means… for a Kul Tiran, but measured by the standard of Lordaeron Nobility, she had been a breath of fresh air amongst the courts of Terenas Menethil.  

 

“Would you expect any other form of travel from me?” Jaina grinned back, glancing up at the sails and feeling a small thrill run through her as they lazily caught a gust of wind, billowing out and throwing the little boat forward in a renewed surge of movement. She may have died but nothing could take this joy away from her, the rush of being out on the water, the simple yet satisfying task of pulling at rigging and expertly guiding the boat so that it effortly cruised over the waves. Her mood, however, soured somewhat as she mumbled the next few words, “Besides, my usual method of transport seems to have somewhat evaded me.” 

 

Calia looked up from the waves to shoot her a sympathetic look. “We will get that fixed, I promise. We have a plan, remember?” 

 

Jaina sighed and nodded. They did have a plan, while still in its infancy with barely any of the finer details ironed out, they did have a plan. Perhaps _plan_ was generous, the steps in which she would go about to successfully achieve it eluded her, but she had an endgame, a goal. 

 

A purpose. 

 

That was good, a purpose was important- kept her busy, kept her from tearing at her own skin if she thought too deeply about the horror of her existence. Kept her from her anger, kept her from her pain.

 

Distracted her from missing Sylvanas, which still lodged in her side like a jagged splinter. 

 

Calia had been a more than welcome distraction. Through an emotional reunion and their subsequent hurried task of acquiring a boat from Anyport, Jaina had barely any time to think of her estranged wife. Now however, surrounded by waves and conversation having lulled somewhat, she couldn’t help but let her traitorous mind return to it’s troubled brooding- thoughts a mixture between wistful and bitter. 

 

“As usual you’re thinking too hard, I can see that hasn’t changed.” 

 

Jaina allowed an uneasy smile. “It’s just… you, you’ve given me a lot to think about.” 

 

That was the half truth, the bombshell of information that had been bestowed upon her was almost too much to process. Anduin had told her of Calia’s fate, yet seeing it in the flesh just made the strange story all that more real. 

 

Calia wasn’t alive, that was clear enough from the pale skin, the ethereal glow in her eyes and the lack of a heartbeat, but she wasn’t like Jaina. Jaina’s body was dead, while very much preserved, she was, all flowery words aside, a walking corpse. But Calia, Calia was something more, her skin was pale, not with the pallor of someone who was undead but that of alabaster or porcelain, as though somebody had carved her from marble. Her eyes did not glow the telltale yellow of the Forsaken but white. She may not be alive but she was a far cry from what made up the majority of undead.

 

Lightforged. 

 

Even the word seemed loaded in its implication. She’d known the Light to resurrect, returning recently deceased bodies to life- but never had it brought back someone as undead. Even Jaina with her extensive research had no idea what this could mean. 

 

“I suppose I have,” Calia laughed, again shaking Jaina from her thoughts. “I am remiss to admit I forgot that you used to do this, just zone out of existence- that clever brain of yours running a mile a minute.” 

 

Jaina ducked her head, smiling bashfully. “I’m sorry, half the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it, it drives Sylvanas insa-” She paused, realizing just who’s name she’d so casually uttered. 

 

Calia, to her credit, only stiffened slightly. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Jaina blurted out, “I know from Anduin what she did to you, that wasn’t right.”

 

“It’s okay I-”

 

“No!” Jaina insisted, “It was a misunderstanding, a horrible one at that, but the way she acted, that wasn’t okay. I know, _Tides_ I know you can never begin to forgive her, and you don’t have any expectation to, but if it’s any consolation she felt immense guilt in her actions that day.” Jaina left out the part that said guilt wasn’t directed at the murder of Calia but more at how much Sylvanas regretted her iron-fisted reaction to the undecisive Forsaken who had then tried to return home. 

 

“No,” Calia’s voice rose and became authoritative, like a teacher chiding a student. “You don’t have to apologize Jaina,” before a slightly wild smile crossed her pale lips, “Don’t you see? You’ll never have to apologize again.” 

 

Jaina opened her mouth to question what Calia meant before her friend continued to talk, that same frenzied look in her eyes.

 

“When I was younger I used to look up to you a lot, you know.” She smiled a little wistfully in Jaina direction, “And believe me I still do, but before, when you were with my...brother.” Jaina flinched but continued to listen, “When you were still with him you were my idol. I was…” Calia laughed nervously, “Obsessed.” 

 

Jaina felt an uneasy twist in her stomach but tilted her head, silently questioning for Calia to elaborate.

 

“You have to understand, Jaina,” Calia took a breath she didn’t need, as if buying time to choose her words correctly. “My father planned my entire life for me, he had it mapped out before I could even walk and all through my growing up I was told what I was supposed to do, who I was supposed to be.” She frowned unhappily, gaze darkening despite the bright, white shimmer of her irises. “I was a young woman, in a court run by old men. I was dictated what I would study, how I should act…” she paused, voice turning bitter, “Who I should love.” She stared back up at Jaina and smiled sadly. 

 

“So imagine my surprise when you came into my life, you were so loud, brazen and...carefree. You studied because you _wanted_ to, the words you spoke came from your heart, not from a sheet of notes handed to you by a cranky old noble...and you _loved,_ Jaina.” Her tone became passionate, a far cry from the reserved manner she’d been speaking in before. “I’m sorry to say his name Jaina, I know what he did to all of us, you most of all, but you and Arthas, you loved each other so freely and it wasn’t fair. My father may have grumbled, calling your father all sorts of names but even _he_ approved of your love.” 

 

“Pirates with titles,” Jaina let out an amused huff of air, “That what he used to call us.”

 

“By his standards that was considered a compliment. You should have head what he said about every other noble house.” 

 

The two shared a laugh. 

 

Calia took a deep breath, and tentatively took Jaina’s hand. “I wanted to be you so much back then, sometimes I used to pray to the Light before bed, begging to trade places with you- even just for a day. To know what it felt like to have a choice.” 

 

Jaina looked down at their entwined fingers, noticing how nice it was to have the same skin temperature, not to have it burn like when she made contact with someone still living. 

 

“I’m sorry Calia I had no idea I-”

 

Her childhood friend merely shook her head, “Don’t you see Jaina, my prayer worked. We have traded places, you and I. Now I am here, ready to embark on my own destiny while yours has been torn away- forced to forsake your choice in the name of peace. I can now choose who I love, but you, you resigned yourself to a fate with _her_ out of some duty you felt you owed.”

 

Jaina, for the first time since their reunion, felt uneasy. She slowly pulled her hand away.

 

“Calia I-” 

 

“But it doesn’t have to be this way” Calia pressed, “Sylvanas broke a promise, the treaty still remains but I can help you, you don’t have to apologize on her behalf anymore, or excuse her crimes, you no longer have to be tied to her tyranny… you can be _free.”_

 

“This _was_ my choice Calia,” Jaina’s voice was sharp. “I do not regret the actions I made in marrying Sylvanas. And she is no tyrant I can assur-” 

 

“How can you not regret it?” Calia butted in, voice confused as though rather than trying to argue a point she simply believed the concept foreign. “Do you not see your choices one by one being taken away from you? Your right to choose who you love, your right to choose where you live, your right to _die_ even? I’ve seen you Jaina, advocating for the Horde even after what they did to _Theramore._ ” 

 

Jaina stiffened, “Calia, I’m warning you as a friend, do not talk about what you do not fully understand.” Her voice was deep, menacing.

 

Mercifully Calia fell silent but the tension remained, the two undead sitting in silence, save for the slap of waves against the hull. 

 

Eventually Jaina spoke, her voice as calm as she could manage- knowing it was a bad idea to shun the only friend she might have in this scenario. “We should work out this plan don’t you think,” she softened slightly at the tense look on Calia’s face, knowing it was best to put the argument behind them. 

 

“Yes,” Calia replied quietly before a determined look crossed her expression, “And with your permission I would like to contact an old friend of mine who could be of great help."

 

* * *

 

 

_Drustvar, Kul’Tiras_

 

“Anyport, while not the scum infested waters of Freehold, we share the same ethos: that anyone is welcome.” The man dropped his dirty rag on the bar top and pointed a yellowed finger in Anduin’s direction. “And that includes you High King of the Alliance so long as you start no trouble with me patrons.” 

 

Anduin glanced around, blue eyes narrowing suspiciously at the troll sat at the table behind, who in response jumped to his feet with a terse look on his face, hand inching toward the dagger on his hip. 

 

“I’m not going to start a fight, nobody here is worth that.” The King said loudly and the troll slowly returned to his seat, shoulders still tense as his lips curled around his tusks in a distasteful sneer. 

 

“Ay that’s good to hear, now how can I help ya, can’t say I expected the King of Stormwind of all people to be gracing such a humble establishment.” 

 

“We believe you sold a boat to a couple of people not so long ago- two women, both quite unique in their features…” 

 

“Yer mean The Lady Proudmoore and some lass that looked like an animated version of one of yer fancy Stormwind statues. Yeah you could say that they were unique.” The man gave a low chuckle. 

 

“Yes!” Anduin pressed, looking relieved he had found the right one. Sylvanas had been getting increasingly… insistent. “Do you have any idea of where they were headed, or how many provisions they took with them? Did they take food? Recall any weapons they stowed in particular? Were any of them injured?” The King listed off the questions that Sylvanas had ordered him to ask and the man behind the bar widened his eyes in surprise. 

 

“Ay you’re a concerned one ain’t ya… far as I’m aware both looked fine to me, well- as fine as any undead can look since that be the rumor flying ‘round. Though,” the barman scratched at his stubble in thought, “They both looked far more intact that any undead I’ve ever seen.” He then snorted to himself, “An they call it a curse, can’t say I’d complain if I never ‘ave to worry about eatin’ or sleepin’ again, all the more time and money to swindle them pigs in Freehold at cards.” 

 

Anduin laughed nervously before leaning closer, “So can you give me any information?” 

 

“Ay I could, but I won’t. Another policy is that I protect me patrons at all costs, I respect you Sir, you are a polite fella, but I ain’t divulging information that could potentially put me customers at harm- even if it be orders from the King of Stormwind himself.” 

 

Anduin looked away, frustrated before a look of determination came across his face. 

 

“I understand that, Sir...” He responded, allowing the same level of respect to the man who might potentially be holding his life in his grubby hands if Sylvanas’s wrath was anything to go by. “But you see, my friend here-” He motioned to the guard, shrouded in a cloak, body now severely deteriorating as the banshee’s necrotic powers ate at it from within. “He’s not doing too well, dying quite quickly in fact,” Anduin allowed a concerned expression to cross his features, “I regret to admit, even _I_ cannot heal him sufficiently alone. I need that woman, the one with the porcelain skin, to help me- only then does my friend stand a chance.” 

 

The barman, eyed him warily before slowly creeping around the bar, he reached the slumped figure of the guard, and slowly peeled back the hood. 

 

“By the Tidemother- I know this fella!”

 

Anduin winced, half expecting that with their cover blown Sylvanas would shed his body and attack the poor man, but no movement came, save for a low moan as ‘Thurston’ lifted his head to look at the barkeep with a glazed-over expression. 

 

“He’s one of the chumps I keep takin’ money from when I thrash him in cards. The dumb fool practically pays the rent of this place. Indirectly of course...” The man suddenly looked concerned, grabbing the guard by his jaw and tilting his face to the side to reveal a webbing of dark veins along his jawline and throat. “Oh this isn’t good, what is that? An infection?” 

 

Anduin couldn’t believe it, surely luck wouldn’t have it that the bartender actually had reason to want to save this man. “Of some sort” he managed to reply. “We believe it’s a corruption, something that needs to be purged by the Light. This is why we need to know where they went, please, I wouldn’t have come here were it not the only way to save his life.” 

 

“Oh aye, for Thurston- while I’m concerned with ye choice in friends your majesty, I would rather this fella stay alive if only because he pays me bills. I can’t tell you much at all, other than they took little in provisions and said they were in a hurry, I did overhear one mentioning… something to do with Northrend but I can’t be certain.” 

 

‘Thurston’ coughed, blood splattering down his chin and the barkeep looked panicked, “Ay I do hope your find her soon! I don’t think he be lasting much longer, you need me to help carry ‘im out?”

 

“No, no” Anduin shook his head fiercely, not wanting the strangely helpful man to touch the possessed body. “He can walk, just about. C’mon _Thurston,”_ He hissed, hoping Sylvanas could catch the meaningful look he shot in her direction. “Let’s go.” 

 

When Sylvanas made no effort to move the body from its slouched position, Anduin felt anger flush in his cheeks. He set his jaw and carefully hooked his arms under the armpits of the guard, grunting as he staggered under the heavy weight of the man. Cursing under his breath the entire time, he dragged his ‘friend’ out of the tavern until they were well away from prying eyes of the concerned looking barkeep. 

 

Once she was sure they were alone, Sylvanas shoved him away, pulling the body into a standstill with a smirk on lips that were now turning blue. “What do you think? Thought I played the sickly compadre quite well, though not nearly as well as you- who knew the Little Lion could be such a Little _Liar._ ”  

 

Anduin scowled, “Was that really necessary? Having to drag you out like that?” 

 

“I think it made it all the more convincing. The King of Stormwind, concerned for his shady little friend. I hope you know that rumour will spread that you keep less than desirable company.” 

 

Anduin pinched his nose and sighed, “I couldn’t care less, and how much are we paying both the barkeep and Thurston to keep quiet about all this?” 

 

“The former, a hefty sum of gold that will keep him running that _delightful_ establishment, where that filthy rag of his probably makes the glasses dirtier that if he’d never cleaned them, for years to come… and the latter? Absolutely nothing.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Anduin felt his mouth go dry as he was greeted with the horrific sight of a large plague bat landing, furling torn, leathery wings to reveal a Dark Ranger, holding tightly onto what he realized, with some considerable queasiness, was the limp body of Sylvanas Windrunner. 

 

The body of Thurston twitched, then spasmed as thick blood, almost black, started to drip from his nose. Blood vessels in his eyes popped and a low groan left his lips as his body crumbled to the ground to begin seizing. Sinister wisps of smoke started to hiss from his skin and Anduin couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to, watching in mute horror as the spirit of the banshee left Thurston’s expiring body, creeping along the ground to slowly repossess what was hers. 

 

The undead elf in the Ranger’s arms gasped and Allanah instantly pulled her down off the bat to lay on the damp grass. Sylvanas, now back in her rightful form might have brought relief to Anduin if he weren’t so horrified at the remains of the guard in which she had possessed. A thick pool of blood seeped from the nose and mouth, his eyes rolled back, dead. The body clearly unable to have survived such a prolonged possession. 

 

“Y...you” Anduin stuttered as Sylvanas rose to a standing position, flexing her long arms and legs and touching her fingers to a knife-like ear with a relieved expression on her face. “You killed him!” 

 

“Yes, that is an unfortunate side effect of sharing your body with me. Care to give it a try?” 

 

“Sylvanas!” Anduin snapped, “That is enough. I can’t just sit back and watch you so casually dispatch of Alliance guards as though their life means nothing.” 

 

The elf paused, barely hiding a scoff. “Oh but you just did,” before her expression softened. “If it’s any consolation, he mercilessly beat his wife and gambled away his children’s future. Azeroth will be a better place with him gone, I don’t just pick and choose anyone when it comes to matters such as this.” With a sweep of her cloak she turned to the bat and began to work at the straps of the harness, motioning for her Ranger to join her on its back. 

 

It shouldn’t have made Anduin feel better but it did, and somehow despite how the Warchief was known for her tricks and deceit, he chose then to believe her words. 

 

“What are you?” He eventually blurted out, his mind a turmoil of emotions as it refused to settle on one. 

 

Sylvanas tilted her head and smiled, her expression almost fond if Anduin didn’t know any better. “Your greatest ally, if you choose to play your cards right. We make a great team, you and I, perhaps more so than I expected.” With that she dug her heels into the side of the bat and it launched into the air, the wind from those powerful wings causing Anduin to plant his heels into the mud to steady himself. 

 

And he wasn’t sure whether those parting words made him feel horror, or pride. For now though, he really needed to call in a meeting regarding the incompetence of his own personal security.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the big reunion next chapter... maybe ;) 
> 
> Undead politics is fun.


End file.
